


Elevators Out of Order

by mtothedestiel



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Ice Skating, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Apologies, Dancing, Deus Ex Machina, Dinner, Engineer Yuuri, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Fish out of Water, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Humor, Inventor Victor, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Movie Reference, New York City, Oral Sex, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Tension, Time Travel, Touch-Starved, True Love, Vicchan Lives, Victorian, aristocrat victor, kate and leopold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-03-30 03:10:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13941321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: A Kate and Leopold AU. In 1876, Victor Nikiforov is a handsome duke with an inventive imagination and a dwindling fortune. The search for a wealthy bride brings him to America, and the capital of progress, New York City. Can an encounter with a mysterious stranger offer Victor a future he never dreamed of?Meanwhile in 2017, physicist turned paper-pusher Yuuri Katsuki is just trying to get through the day, which is tough enough without surprise phone calls from his roommate announcing he has a 19th-century aristocrat out cold on their sofa.To top things off, it would seem every elevator in Manhattan is suddenly out of order. What a coincidence.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello beloved readers, here I am, back on my bullshit. This story is a loose adaptation of Kate & Leopold, the early 2000s rom-com classic (emphasis on "loose"). I couldn't resist another chance at historical Victor winning over our beautiful but anxious Katsuki Yuuri. As you might guess, I'll do my best with research, but I am not an expert in time travel, theoretical physics, marketing firms, Victorian America, elevators, or Russian Orthodoxy, so please assume any errors are purely accidental. Enjoy, and if you want to read more, please comment, share, and subscribe!

_New York City, 1876_

 

“..Time. Time, ladies and gentlemen, has been described by great minds as the fourth dimension. Yet to the mortal man time has no dimension at all! We are like horses with blinders, only seeing what is before us, forever guessing the future, and fabricating the past.”

Victor Nikiforov’s heart beats vigorously in his chest as he absorbs the words of the great man standing on a bunting draped platform at the foot of the colossal structure that in only a few short years would bridge the gap between the island of Manhattan and the greater portion of New York. What a time to be alive, and witness to such a monument. Victor swipes his pencil across the page of his leather-bound sketchbook, trying to capture the contours of the bridge in progress that he might study more about the science of its construction that evening.   

“Brilliant, isn’t it, Georgi?” Victor says, turning to his companion as a round of applause rises from the crowd.

“Quite right, Your Grace,” his valet replies in their native Russian, “But might I remind you sir, that your uncle is expecting—”

“Shh,” Victor hushes his put upon manservant as the architect’s speech continues, “Just until the end of the speech, Gosha. Then we can return to my gilded prison.”

“As you say, Your Grace.”

Victor means to turn back, but a peculiar sight catches his eye over Georgi’s shoulder. Just behind the row of eager photographers hidden beneath the velvet hood of their cameras, there stands a young Southeast Asian man. Victor can’t put his finger on what irks him about his appearance. This is New York City, after all, and travelers from all corners of the globe have found their way to these streets, Victor himself included. But there is something odd about this stranger. He stands awkwardly in his dress, and the cut of his dark hair is unlike any that Victor has seen emerge from a barber’s shop during his stay here. Besides his appearance the man seems like any other of the citizens present at the dedication, his grey eyes lit enthusiastically as the architect lauds the progress of the future.

“--and how do we lift these shackles, and live, not in the moment, but in the glorious expanse of time’s continuum?” the architect continues, pulling Victor’s attention back to the stage, “The secret lies, in the enduring power of our achievements! Our creations!”

Victor closes his sketchbook to join the next round of applause.

“Just as the pyramids testified to the greatness of the Egyptians, so my glorious construction will represent our culture in perpetuity! This bridge will stand, here in our present, and forward, into the future!”

The finale of the speech is met with the greatest applause yet, and even a few cheers from the less well bred members of the audience. Victor holds onto the moment for as long as he can, feeling the energy reach its peak before the dedication is over and the crowds begin to disperse. His own grin is fading as he turns to his valet once more, out of reasonable excuses to avoid his great uncle and his fate to come this evening.  

“Alright, Georgi, I suppose we should delay no longer…”

But as Victor glances up, his gaze is caught again.  There he is. The stranger from before still stands exactly where Victor last saw him. He hasn’t moved at all despite the exit of the crowd. In fact, the young man seems more interested in the proceedings than ever, only his gaze isn’t fixed on the podium, but on _Victor._ It’s not that particular kind of glance Victor is used to receiving from other men who share his proclivities, one that invites a more private meeting in a private study or university dormitory. No, the only sentiment Victor can glean from this stranger’s look is unbridled curiosity.  

How odd.

Victor means to cease his staring and ignore the man’s untoward interest when the young man lifts a strange rectangular device up to his face, still looking out at Victor and the rest of the crowd. His focus on the small, sleek rectangle is not unlike the row of photographers beside him, but that would be preposterous. Who could imagine a camera no bigger than a deck of cards?  

“Your Grace?”

“Just a moment,” Victor says, handing Georgi his sketchbook before calling out in English to the stranger, “You there! What are you doing?”

Startled, the stranger stumbles back, tucking his strange device away before catching his balance and scampering off. Victor makes to pursue him, but he’s stopped by the sudden burst of a flashbulb in his face.  

“For the _Herald_ , Your Grace,” a reporter asks him as several more camera flashes go off, “What do you think of today’s proceedings? Is it true that you’ll be making an important announcement tonight?”

“What?” Victor asks, hand in front of his face to block further bursts of lights, “No, pardon me, I’m trying to—”

“Please, gentlemen, there will be no comments from Duke Nikiforov,” Georgi intervenes, stepping elegantly between Victor and the press, “Sir, are you well?”  

“Yes, yes,” Victor replies, slipping back into Russian, “Forgive me, Gosha. I just...thought I saw something strange.”  

“Not to worry sir,” Georgi says, leading Victor away from the crowds, “But we really should be heading back to your uncle’s residence.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Victor says, glancing back once more at the half-constructed bridge before they turn the corner.

“We wouldn’t want to be late.”

Gray clouds gather overhead during the short walk back to the residence of Lord Yakov Feltsman, Victor’s great uncle on his mother’s side and the closest thing to a parental figure Victor had left to him in the world. They enter the stately townhouse to find the main floor in a chaotic state of preparation for the night’s party. Footmen scurry back and forth across the polished wooden floors, ferrying gleaming silverware and sparkling crystal glasses to the ballroom while maids dust already spotless works of art that hang against the lush papered walls of the main stairwell. It seems every lamp is the house has been lit, the gas light casting a golden glow on the flower arrangements that drape over every available surface.

Reluctantly holding sway at the center of this chaos is Uncle Yakov, already dressed in his own sober evening attire as he supervises the installation of a massive Nikiforov family crest over the mantlepiece of the main entrance. His expression sours as he catches sight of Victor, still in his day clothes after having snuck out that morning.

“Vitya,” he exclaims, “Where have you been?”

“I was seeing the future, Uncle Yakov,” Victor replies, handing his overcoat to a footman, “You ought to try it, yourself. We live in a miraculous age of progress.”

“Georgi, what is the explanation for this?” Yakov demands, ignoring Victor as usual, “It’s half-past five and he’s not even _dressed_.”

“Not to worry, my lord,” Georgi promises as he follows Victor up the stairs, “He’ll be ready in plenty of time.”

“I don’t want him merely ‘ready’,” Yakov shouts after them, “I need him looking _marriageable_.”

“What an adjective,” Victor mutters to himself as he enters his chambers.

Despite Yakov’s concerns it’s swift work getting Victor out of his more durable daytime attire. A quick washing up removes the grime and dust of an afternoon out in the city and in a mournably short amount of time Victor is standing before his vanity mirror in black trousers and his best silk shirt, face fresh and his hair perfectly coiffed as Georgi lays out his evening suit.

He cuts quite a handsome appearance. Victor cannot be so naive as to pretend he is not aware of his good looks, particularly under the flattering influences of a well made suit. It seems only Victor sees beyond the symmetry of his features to the constant downturn of his mouth, and the shadows lurking beneath his eyes from sleepless nights spent knowing his days of freedom are numbered.

The Nikiforov coffers are nearly empty, and so the last living son of the ancient house must lure in a wealthy bride from America. Victor shakes his head, straightening his cravat.

“What a tragic farce this evening shall be,” he murmurs, before offering his reflection a genteel bow in a mocking pantomime of his performance to come.

“‘Miss Smith, a pleasure to meet you’,” Victor says into the mirror, “‘What are my interests? Well, that hardly matters in these circumstances, but since you asked, I happen to prefer spending my time locked in my workshop and avoiding the romantic company of the female sex as much as possible.’”

Victor doesn’t miss Georgi’s baleful look as his valet brushes out his deep violet dinner jacket.

“Yes, Georgi, I do recall you sharing your profound advice about ‘leaping into love’,” Victor sighs, “I’m sure I’m greatly disappointing you with my boorishness.”

“I voiced no such thought, Your Grace,” Georgi says, assisting Victor into his brocade waistcoat.

“I would gladly leap, instead of being pushed off this cliff,” Victor mutters as Georgi fastens his cufflinks, “‘I only have two requirements, Miss, that you adhere to the Russian Orthodox creed and that you are insanely rich. Oh? What’s that? 20,000 a year but you’re a Presbyterian? Well, I’m sure we can find a compromise, after all, what _really_ matters—’“

“It’s always been your misfortune, Vitya, that you are so amused by the sound of your own voice.”

“With a life as stagnant as mine the fact that I can amuse myself at all is a miracle,” Victor replies, turning to face his disapproving great-uncle.

“Don’t blaspheme, boy,” Yakov grumbles.

“I would never think of such a thing, Uncle.”

Victor crosses himself before pressing a kiss to his fingertips and touching the place over his heart where he keeps his own miniature icon of St. Michael and the Virgin in Majesty safe on a gold chain around his neck. He glances back to see Yakov examining the surface of Victor’s desk, currently cluttered with the nearly finished model he’d been fiddling with since he arrived in New York.

“Please be careful with that,” Victor says, as his uncle twists the handle of the pulley system Victor had fashioned from the parts of an old rundown clock.

“This is the device you were jabbering about, to take priests to the bell tower.”

“It could take anyone to any floor of a building that they chose,” Victor corrects, “Our constructions are reaching farther towards the heavens by the day. Our architecture will soon outreach the stamina of our legs.”

“You speak of progress and the future,” Yakov says, turning away from Victor’s invention, “What I have to offer you downstairs is reality. You must marry, Vitya.”

“Marriage,” Victor repeats with a beleaguered sigh, “Marriage is the promise of eternal love. As a man of honor I cannot promise a woman eternally what I have never felt momentarily.”

“Born into privilege, yet perversely ashamed of it,” Yakov grumbles, shaking his head, “This is your tragedy, Victor. You are a duke, the blood of his Imperial Majesty—”

“By the skin of my teeth, uncle,” Victor replies derisively, “The fourth son of an ill-liked cousin of the Tsar with nothing but an ancient title and an inherited debt to my name. Besides, the new royalty are men of accomplishment, like Roebling, with his bridge, or Edison and his lamp—”

“Those men made themselves from nothing,” Yakov interrupts him, expression stormy, “You on the other hand, were born with everything, and from it fashioned _nothing_.”

Victor has no pithy reply to his uncle’s biting words. Yakov himself seems to realize he has said more than necessary, his anger ebbing away to something more akin to exhaustion.

“Take a careful look at your dance card tonight, Vitya,” his great-uncle sighs, “A wealthy bride is your only surety. There is nothing more I can do for you, as much as I wish it.”

Victor takes his uncle’s attempt at kindness with a silent nod, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. Yakov leaves them, and Georgi quietly assists Victor into his dinner jacket and white gloves.

Only a few minutes later finds Victor passing off his first empty glass of champagne to a servant’s waiting tray, the party in full swing around him. Having paid his respects to every New York industrialist Yakov put him in front of, Victor can no longer ignore the cheerful playing of the string quartet nor the call of his obligations to the dancefloor. Georgi offers Victor an expression of preemptive sympathy as he guides him to a nearby gaggle of appropriately affluent women. The first name on Victor’s full dance card belongs to a comely young woman with striking red hair, the color offset by the muted green silk of her gown.

“Your Grace, may I present Miss Mila Ivanovna Babicheva...of the Babichevas of Manhattan.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.” Miss Babicheva replies, her Russian touched with a charming American accent. She offers a perfect curtsey, to which Victor replies with the expected bow.

“Shall we?” he says, offering his arm. Miss Babicheva accepts his escort to the dance floor, and they step into a waltz, the very picture of a handsome aristocratic couple. Victor does his best offer Miss Babicheva his full attention. It’s hardly her fault that he is in this predicament, and Victor does enjoy a waltz under normal circumstances.

“Do you enjoy dancing, Miss Babicheva?” he asks as they follow the turn of the floor.

“Yes, Your Grace,” his partner replies, “When I have time. I’m very active in the Church, so I rarely find myself at such a lovely party.”

 _Dancing and religion. Plenty in common to build a marriage on_ , Victor muses. Mila Babicheva would hardly make an _unsuitable_ bride to present in St. Petersburg. She’s graceful, polite, and her father has a fortune in American steel. Uncle Yakov would call it a perfect match.

Victor has half a mind to bend a knee and propose this very moment, if only to save himself the torture of an entire evening’s worth of feigned interest. Surely Yakov won’t be too angry, so long as the job is done and Victor is safely engaged before midni—  

_There he is again!_

Victor turns his head sharply, nearly trodding on Miss Babicheva’s slippered foot as he catches an impossible sight out of the corner of his eye. There, hovering awkwardly just at the entrance to the ballroom, is the stranger from earlier. How he managed to get in the door Victor has no idea, given the obscenely casual state of his dress, but there he stand’s in Yakov’s foyer nonetheless, still holding his mysterious black rectangle and looking about with a rude amount of curiosity.

“Your Grace, is something the matter?”

Victor turns back to his dance partner, his smile laced with chagrin. He’s amazed he hasn’t landed on his backside, how little he was paying attention to the complex steps of the waltz. Only the force of habit had kept his feet in motion.  

“Not at all,” Victor assures Miss Babicheva, “I’ve only spotted someone who needs my urgent attention. I hope you can forgive my stepping away for a moment?”

Victor sees his partner safely to the edge of the dancefloor with another apology before turning just in time to see the interloper sneak away from the ballroom and into the library. Determined to find the answer to this mystery, Victor follows, dodging the many attempts at conversation that hamper him as the crosses the ballroom. Finally, he escapes into a narrow corridor, slowing his steps as he approaches so as not to alert the stranger to his presence.

Victor is surprised when he reaches the threshold of the library, not to see the intruder looking for escape, or pilfering valuables, but flipping through one of Victor’s own journals. He turns the pages with reverence, as if Victor’s mindless scribbles have some hidden meaning.

“Wow,” Victor hears him exclaim under his breath, “Yuuri is never going to believe this…”

Despite the danger of the situation, the sight of his old sketches still leaves a bitter taste in Victor’s mouth.

“Many dreams,” he says at last, “All useless.”

The stranger jumps back from the notebook with a barely contained squeak as Victor steps into the room proper. Even in his ill-fitted coat it’s obvious that Victor has significant height and breadth on the young man, who quivers in the middle of the room. He had evidently not planned on being caught, despite the brashness of his intrusion.

Unless this young man should carry some concealed pistol, Victor is certain he has nothing to fear.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice loud in the silent room.

“Who am I?” The stranger repeats, smiling nervously, “I-uh--I’m nobody, really. You should go back to your party and...um...look, there!”

Like a fool Victor turns with the direction of the man’s pointing finger, only to hear the scramble of the stranger’s escape behind his back.

“Wait!” Victor demands, following the man back into the crowded ballroom. He manages yet again to sidestep the socialites hungry for his attention, eyes only for the stranger frantically pushing his way to the front door. Victor reaches the foyer just in time to see him nearly bowl over two ladies just arriving escaping out into the street where a torrential downpour has burst from the heavens.

Victor snatches his overcoat from a nearby hook, determined to keep up his pursuit.

The heavy rain slows them both, but only a few blocks and it’s obvious the stranger is headed for the unfinished Brooklyn Bridge, stumbling through the mud at the base of the huge structure. Victor pushes his sopping hair out of his eyes as he gives chase. Through the murky darkness he can see the young man climbing a ladder built into the scaffolding surrounding the bridge, and he follows, slipping through the unsteady footing. This weather is far from safe for climbing to great heights. Victor fears for the stranger as well as himself as he begins to climb, his cold fingers keeping only a shaking grip on the rungs of the steel structure.

“Stop, please,” Victor calls out as he climbs, though the howling winds steal his voice away, “Use your sense, man! The structure isn’t safe in this weather.”

Victor’s cries are ignored, and Victor can only continue to follow to ensure the young man’s safety. With a shout he barely dodges as a piece of debris falls just where his arm was moments ago, likely blown loose in the storm. His chest heaves as Victor manages to pull himself up the last few feet to the upper platform of the scaffolding. Here at least the structure is more permanent, sturdy wood built for years of construction. Victor stumbles to his feet and continues, following the young man up a few shorter, staircase-like ladders with a sinking dread behind his ribs.

Surely there could be no escape this high up? Except—

“ _No!”_ Victor rounds the corner of the scaffolding and leaps just in time to grab the back of the stranger’s collar as he attempts to jump from the edge of the platform. Victor’s heart is in his throat as the smaller man’s weight pulls him forward and they both slide off the edge of the scaffolding, nearly four stories up. Victor scrabbles behind him frantically, his fingers only managing to grasp a thick cord of rope by the grace of God.

Victor gasps in pain, his entire upper body dangling free in the air with the weight of the man below threatening to send them both to their deaths at any moment.

“Let go!” the man shouts, “It’s okay, just let go!”

“Are you insane?” Victor replies, frantically clinging to the man’s collar as his grip on the fraying rope behind him digs a raw welt into his palm. Victor hears a terrifying creak, and the shiver and hiss of fraying hemp. The wood is slippery beneath his knees, and the stranger is still bizarrely struggling despite the mortal peril they’re both in.

“I’ll be fine, I swear!” He shouts, “You don’t know what you’re doing!”

“ _Stop_ ,” Victor pleads, voice ragged, “If you don’t hold still I’m not going to be able to—”

The rope snaps, and Victor shouts as the stranger’s weight pulls him from the scaffolding, plunging them both lethally toward the watery depths below.


	2. Chapter 2

_ New York City, 2017 _

 

Yuuri Katsuki has a lot on his mind as the elevator lights up floor numbers above his head one by one, carrying him up to his job at the advertising offices of Manhattan’s most competitive luxury automobile producers. 

The first thing is his roommate. Phichit never came home after his class last night. Yuuri only received a text message letting him know his best friend had stumbled onto something and was going to be late at the lab. Yuuri checks his phone again, but there’s still no updates. Yuuri sighs, making a deliberate effort not to worry too much. He used to spend hours at the lab, after all, before he lost steam on his dissertation and gave up his PhD dreams for a stable day job. Phichit would be fine for another twelve hours without Yuuri keeping an eye on him.

Besides, he has more immediate hurdles to face. Yuuri’s primary worry of the day is his morning meeting with the company executives, which he’s barely going to be on time for thanks to a long line at the coffee shop. He spent hours last night preparing, and he knows the data backwards and forwards, but this is his first shot at being a project manager. Directing all the TV programming for their new  _ Grand Prix _ model is a huge responsibility, one he doesn’t want blowing up in his face. Yuuri sips his already lukewarm green tea and breathes a sigh of relief as the elevator doors open onto the sixth floor and he can make his way to his humble cubicle.

“Morning, Yuuri,” Sara chimes as she spots his approach, “Running a little behind?” 

“The R was late,” Yuuri explains to his neighbor in the office pool.

“What else is new,” Sara says, shaking her head.

“Did I miss anything?” Yuuri asks, unzipping his laptop case to retrieve his computer and the folders he’d taken home to study last night.

“Not much. We’ve got some new demo numbers coming out of Research in a couple of hours, and they finally fixed the refrigerator in the breakroom. Oh, and Chris stopped by to talk to you. I told him you were in the men’s room.”

“Chris was here?” Yuuri exclaims, nearly dropping a carefully prepared stack of notes, “Chris Giacometti? What did he say? Was it about the new commercial? Tell me exactly what he said, Sara.”

“He said ‘tell Yuuri that he’s planning to sit in on the ad meeting for the new  _ Grand Prix _ model.’”

Yuuri jumps at the sultry tones of his boss’ French accented baritone. Sure enough, when he turns around Christophe Giacometti is leaning against the edge of his cubicle, wearing a perfectly tailored suit and an amused smile. 

“Chris!” 

“Good morning, Yuuri.” 

“Ah, um g-good morning,” Yuuri replies, smoothing the front of his own creased tie. Christophe’s eyes follow the motion and Yuuri hurriedly pulls his hands back to his sides. Something about his boss’ presence always made Yuuri feel as if he were about to be devoured. 

“Shall we?” Christophe asks, one eyebrow piqued.  

“Right, yeah, of course,” Yuuri stammers, “Just let me…”

Yuuri quickly gathers his notes, and his tea, and throws Sara a  _ look _ for not giving him the head’s up before following Christophe down the hall and into the sunny conference room where several of Yuuri’s  _ other _ bosses are waiting to hear his progress on their search for a spokesperson to be the voice for their new line of advertisements.

“Whenever you’re ready, Yuuri,” Christophe says, taking his seat at the head of the conference table. 

“Sure,” Yuuri agrees, sliding a thumb drive into a wall monitor at the front of the room. He uploads several video files before passing stapled copies of his summarized findings to the executives in the room. 

“Good morning, everyone,” he says when he’s settled with his notes, “If you don’t mind I’d like to get started right away with the best results of our auditions last week, and then I can walk you through some of our focus group data…”

Yuuri starts his first video, a short test screening of a handsome British actor. 

“ _ Is there anything more thrilling than the drive of progress? Only experiencing that progress in a cradle of elegance and taste…” _

The team had thought the performers Shakespearean experience would lend the dialogue some class, but unfortunately on camera the performance had lacked warmth, and it showed in the feedback.

_ “...the 2017 Grand Prix is more than a car. It’s a marvel of engineering, the best in its class of luxury, performance, and safety. And don’t you deserve the best? _ ”

“That was the favorite candidate,” Yuuri reports, pausing the video playback on the wall monitor, “However, as you’ll note on my report, forty-five percent of our desired demographic circled ‘creepy’ as his primary identifying characteristic, with ‘pretentious’ close behind. And the second option...”

Yuuri plays the second video. Another actor recites the desired tagline in a broad New York accent, accompanied by enthusiastic gesticulating. 

“Our focus group found him to be ‘annoying,’ and ‘rude’,” Yuuri concludes, turning to the next page of his notes.

“What are we supposed to do about this?” One of the executives asks, looking to Christophe, “The spot is supposed to air in three days. The  _ Grand Prix _ is about to start hitting show floors.”

Christophe makes a note on his tablet before glancing back up through his long eyelashes.  

“Yuuri? What do you suggest?”

Yuuri takes a sip of his tea to steady his nerves. If he wants to make anywhere beyond the cubicle pool in this job he has to prove he can cut it in the boardroom.

“I recommend another session,” he says, voice thankfully clear, “Tomorrow. My department has already booked a new focus group to review the candidates live and we can make a decision in the room.”

With a healthy number of heads nodding around the table Yuuri takes another relieved sip of his tea. Which is the exact moment the lid of his to-go cup decides to abandon its proper seal, and with a sputtering gasp Yuuri finds himself with half a grande genmaicha splashed down his front. 

Yuuri’s cheeks burn as sympathetic laughter sounds in the room. At least Yuuri’s surprise Buster Keaton routine seems to have brought an end to the meeting, as most of the executives begin to disperse. Of all the things...while he’s dabbing at his soaked tie with a Kleenex Yuuri notices Christophe isn’t laughing, but has pulled out his cellphone.

“Josef?” he says into the receiver, “Would you please call down to Barney’s? I need a men’s dress shirt, size medium, in Mr. Katsuki’s office by lunch. And a tie as well. Something in dark blue, I think.”

Yuuri escapes from the conference room with a barely audible squeak of  _ “thanks,”  _ his papers clutched to his chest to hide the stain until he’s back at the relative safety of his desk where he does his best to bury himself in papers until Christophe’s assistant arrives with a new shirt and tie from the department store down the block. Yuuri accepts the slim garment box and changes in the men’s room, noting the slim fit of the shirt, which is higher quality than anything he would ever buy for himself. He would have to send Chris a thank-you over email. With one last glance to make sure his tie is straight Yuuri slinks back to his office pool, doing his best to ignore the appraising looks of co-workers who have noticed his lunchtime change of clothes.

Yuuri distracts himself from the morning’s humiliation with some paperwork, cross checking their latest script for the upcoming television commercial with the hard data on the  _ Grand Prix _ still coming in from the engineers. His Master’s degree comes in handy as he scans the complex numbers, skimming over EPA emissions standards testing and aerodynamics flow charts with similar ease. Everything is in order, the data matching the simplified and focus group approved language to be aired on tv next week...until Yuuri reaches the packet from the crash test sites.  

Something doesn’t add up. Yuuri runs a few numbers in his head, looking at the detailed information underneath the page of charts. A carbon steel frame impacting a concrete barricade at thirty-five miles an hour with no cross-wind...

Their ratings are too high. Not by much, but more than the margin of error. Yuuri is almost certain of it.

“Sara, are these the most recent safety numbers?” Yuuri asks his co-worker over the wall of his cubicle.

“Um...yeah,” Sara replies, checking her documents against the date on Yuuri’s letterhead, “We just got them this morning. Why, is something up?” 

Yuuri frowns. 

“I’m not sure,” he says, sinking back into his chair. Sara pokes her head over their partition, violet eyes bright with curiosity. 

“If you think something’s off you should take it to Chris,” she suggests, “Even if you’re wrong you don’t want to mess around with something like crash data.”

“I don’t want to bother him with it,” Yuuri mumbles, “It’s not like I’m part of the engineer corps.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’d be too bothered,” Sara says with a knowing look, “You could thank him for the fashion rescue, while you’re in there.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Yuuri groans.

“I hear he guessed your shirt size pretty quick,” she continues, resting her chin on her elbow and fluttering her eyelashes. 

“It’s not like that,” Yuuri insists, covering his face with his data packet, “He just felt bad for me because I embarrassed myself.”

“He felt  _ something, _ alright.”

“I’ll go talk to him now if you promise to never say that again,” Yuuri mutters. He peeks his head over the partition, seeing Christophe is in fact in his glass walled office, staring out at his view of Manhattan. Yuuri sighs. The longer he spends in conversation with his boss the more flustered and uncomfortable he leaves at the end of the day, but inconsistencies in their crash test data are more important than Yuuri’s professional anxieties. 

With one last glance at Sara Yuuri grabs the necessary folder and takes the short walk across the hall, nodding to Christophe’s secretary before knocking on the open door. 

“Chris, excuse me, do you have a second—” Only after Christophe turns does Yuuri see the smartphone held up to his ear.

“Oh, sorry, I’ll come back.”

Yuuri tries to slip away but Christophe shakes his head, waving him in and pointing to a chair in front of his desk.

“...yes, yes he’s right here in fact. I’ll be sure to tell him,” he says to whoever’s on the line, “Mhm, wonderful. I’ll see you in the boardroom next week. Bye, now.”

Yuuri takes a seat, folder clutched in his lap as his boss ends the call. 

“Yuuri, good to see you freshened up. I knew that tie would be a lovely color on you,” Christophe says, settling back behind his desk, “That was JJ on the phone. They completely understand the recasting for the TV spot, and they’re loving your thoroughness on the project. Well done.”  

“Oh, um, that’s good to hear,” Yuuri replies. At least his clumsiness hadn’t left too bad of an impression. “And thank you for the shirt. You certainly didn’t have to do that.”

“Trust me, it was my pleasure,” Christophe says, leaning back in his executive chair, “We’re lucky to have you in this department Yuuri. I hope you know that.”

“Oh, I don’t know—”

“I’ll admit I didn’t know what to expect when HR plucked you out of the intern pool for this job, but they were right,” Chris continues, “Despite your STEM background you somehow know what women want, and what men want to  _ be _ . ...Even the straight ones.” 

“Um, thank you?” Yuuri flips through his safety data nervously, “There’s something else as well, about the _Grand Prix_. I was looking at some numbers and I noticed—”

“I’d love to hear your thoughts, Yuuri, but unfortunately I’m already overdue in another meeting,” Christophe interrupts, standing as he accepts a sleek file folder from his assistant, “Why don’t we talk over dinner, tomorrow night perhaps? My treat, of course.”

“Dinner?” Yuuri repeats. 

“ _ L’Artusi _ at nine?” Christophe offers, “Just the two of us. Plenty of time to talk about your notes on the  _ Grand Prix _ . ...And you, of course.”

“Me?” Yuuri is starting to feel like a parrot. Christophe grins, stepping around his desk and into Yuuri’s personal space.

“Yes, you,” he says, straightening Yuuri’s new tie, “I see bright things in your future if you keep up this good work,  _ cher _ .”

“Um…” 

“Confirm it with my secretary, will you?” Christophe says, releasing Yuuri after brushing a bit of invisible lint off his shoulder, “I really do have a meeting.” 

Christophe glides past, leaving Yuuri standing alone in his office. 

“...Okay?” 

The rest of the workday passes quickly. Yuuri’s instincts are still jangling over the conflicting safety numbers, but he’ll will be able to talk that over with Chris at their business dinner. In the meantime he has plenty to do to prepare for the new session tomorrow at the studio. The  _ Grand Prix _ still needs a face to sell it. A handsome face that reads trustworthy, elegant, and luxurious. None of their candidates had been up to scratch for the focus groups so far. So Yuuri spends the rest of his afternoon calling around to the various acting agencies on their call sheet and confirming fresh talent for tomorrow. One of the eight or so people Yuuri confirms will have to be their man, or the company will have wasted a lot of money on a TV spot they aren’t ready for and he’ll be in the hot seat with Chris for sure.  

It’s well past five when Yuuri finally packs up for the day, eyes on his phone as he makes his way to the elevator once more. Still no word from Phichit. Whatever’s going on in the lab must be really intense. That, or his roommate has just crashed after one of his trademark all nighters.  

Yuuri hits the button for the ground floor and scrolls Instagram for a minute of his descent. He’s distracted from his phone by the flicker of the lights overhead. Yuuri stumbles as the elevator comes to a bumpy pause. 

_ Did we lose power? _ Yuuri wonders, but after a moment the lights flicker back and the car begins to move again, the numbers overhead blinking on one at a time as the ground floor nears. Yuuri breathes a sigh of relief but doesn’t let go of the handrail.  Sure enough, just as the carriage reaches the bottom floor it stutters again. With a ding, the doors open, still a good three feet up from the polished marble floors of the building lobby. 

“Great,” Yuuri mutters. He punches the emergency stop button just to prevent any more surprises and sits down at the edge of the open doors to carefully lower himself down to the floor.  

“Are you alright?” the receptionist at the front desk asks, watching Yuuri practically climb out of the elevator.  

“Yes, yes, thank you,” Yuuri replies, brushing off his pants and grabbing his laptop case, “Just bad luck I guess. Or good luck, that I didn’t get stuck.”  

“I’m already on the line with maintenance,” the receptionist says, holding the phone to her ear, “Sorry for the inconvenience!”

Yuuri makes his exit with a wave and the slim remainder of his dignity. Having survived the trauma of  _ almost  _ getting stuck in the elevator, Yuuri figures he can treat himself to a tea for the train home. There’s a shop right by the R platform that stocks his preferred genmaicha and Yuuri happily leaves behind the bustle of his office building for the equally loud but different bustle of the busy coffee house. 

He’s just placed his order when his phone goes off in his pocket. It’s Phichit,  _ finally _ . 

“Phichit, hi,” Yuuri says after swiping to answer the call, “How’s the lab? I’m starting to think you should just move there, since you’re never home—”

“Yuuri! Omg, Yuuri you are never going to believe where I’ve been. It was incredible!”

Phichit’s sounds strangely out of breath. Maybe he’s still on his way back from campus. 

“Sounds like you’ve had a productive day,” Yuuri says, stepping to the side to wait for his drink, “Did you finally get that equation worked out? I know it’s been bugging you.”

“No, that’s not important, are you listening? I found something  _ big _ today, Yuuri. Like ‘change our lives’ big. Change the fabric of  _ time _ big.”

“What, a new theory?” Yuuri asks, “That’s great, Phi—”

“Not a theory! That’s the thing! I lied, Yuuri, I wasn’t at the lab last night,” Phichit continues, “Well, I was, but then I went somewhere else.  _ To the past!” _

“The past? Is this a euphemism?” Yuuri asks, “Are you seeing that historian again? I know you like him, but you know it’s never going to work out with your schedules—”

“You’re not getting it,” Phichit says, exasperated, “Or I’m not explaining it right, or, or  _ something _ but this validates our  _ entire  _ life’s work.”

“ _ Your  _ life’s work,” Yuuri corrects, him, nodding apologetically at the barista as she hands over Yuuri’s green tea, “I don’t do that crazy time-space continuum stuff anymore, remember? I’ve got a real job, with health insurance.” 

“But your theory was  _ right _ , Yuuri! I found it!” Phichit’s voice buzzes in Yuuri’s ear, “It was right over the East River, right where we said it would be—” 

“Hang on, I can’t hear you,” Yuuri says, trying to block out the noise of the busy shop without dropping his tea, “What was where we said it would be?”

“A rip in time! A portal, right from us to the nineteenth century, just like the hypothesis in your dissertation. It was amazing!”

“My dissertation was an overly idealistic waste of—wait,” Yuuri says, “Over the East River? But we said the velocity required to pass through would mean dropping from a height of at least—”

“Oh. Yeah. Well,” Phichit says quickly, “You were right about that too! So I may have jumped off a bridge—”

“You did  _ what? _ ” Yuuri nearly screeches, catching the eye of more than a few of his fellow patrons, “You could have died, ohmygod—”

“It’s okay though, because I’m totally fine,” Phichit cuts him off, “I’m better than fine! I spent the whole day walking around in 1876! I saw the Brooklyn Bridge dedication, and rode a horse, and I met the Duke of St. Petersburg in the flesh! I got pictures of his sketchbooks and everything.”

Yuuri can feel a headache steadily building behind his eyes. Sure, talking shop with Phichit was usually great. Reminiscing over his grad school days. Saying  _ what if _ . But actual time travel? Impossible. That’s why Yuuri isn’t getting a doctorate and started working in advertising.

“Phichit…”

“And that’s not even the crazy part,” Phichit continues.

“That’s  _ not  _ the crazy part?” Yuuri repeats.

“No, no! The crazy part is—” Phichit’s voice sinks down to an urgent whisper, “ _ He followed me home! _ ”

“ _ What _ ?” Yuuri hisses, “What are you talking about?”

“He followed me back through the portal,” Phichit explains, “He’s asleep on our couch right now!”

“Phichit--what—” Yuuri can’t wrap his head around this. “ _ Who _ do you have in our apartment right now?”

“Victor Nikiforov!” Phichit practically shouts, “The fourth duke of St. Petersburg, cousin of Tsar Alexander II, inventor of the elevator! The one whose picture in the engineering textbooks you used to drool over in—”

“ _ Okay _ , okay, I get it,” Yuuri says, cutting his friend off, “I’m coming home right now. Stay where you are, and be safe, alright? Don’t let this...duke or whoever he is anywhere near you until I get there.”

“Trust me, this guy is harmless. And unconscious,” Phichit promises, “And handsome, Yuuri, wait ‘til you see him in person—”

“Don’t go anywhere, and don’t do anything,” Yuuri orders, checking the time on his phone. Ugh, the R was only two minutes away. He was going to have to run.

“I’m about to get on the train,” Yuuri says to Phichit as he heads back out to the street, “I’ll be home in a half hour.”  

With one last promise of safety from Phichit Yuuri ends the call, breaking into a jog and he races towards the entrance to the train platform still a block away. Who knows who Yuuri’s overworked roommate had brought back to their fourth floor two bedroom.

Between his job and his best friend, is there any way Yuuri’s life could get more crazy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying, please share and subscribe :DD  
> Next up: Some very important meetings!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, new chapter! This one's long and I've had the busiest of busy weeks, so it took a while, but I hope to keep posting at a quicker pace in the future!

Victor’s slow ascent back to the realm of consciousness is heralded by the yapping of a small dog and by the murmuring of two voices in softly accented English. 

“Vicchan  _ shh.  _ Be good, buddy, we don’t want to wake him up.”

“He’s going to wake up eventually Yuuri. What do we do with him?”

“ _ Do _ with him? We don’t even know who he is!”

“Are you telling me you don’t recognize him?”

“Shh,  _ shh _ , Phichit I believe you, okay? Just let me wrap my head around this.”

Victor slows his breathing, maintaining the facade of slumber as he takes further stock of his surroundings. He lies on a cushioned surface, perhaps a chaise or sofa lined in some kind of alien velvet. The press of it against his cheek is far softer than any textile Victor is familiar with. He shifts minutely to find he is still dressed in his dinner clothes, missing only his jacket. His whole body feels like one ungodly ache. What might have caused such a state of discomfort?

Victor’s wits sharpen as sleep leaves him and all at once he encounters a barrage of memories, each more overwhelming than the last. 

The stranger at his uncle’s party.

The chase through the pouring rain.

The final, terrifying plunge from the top of Roebling’s bridge.

Victor’s limbs seem far too sore to belong to the spirit of one deceased, but the likelihood of his having survived a fall of nearly five stories is laughable. A sort of clawing panic grips at him when Victor considers the chance that he might truly be dead, and without even the last rites. Without giving away his conscious state to the two voices still arguing above him Victor rests his hand over his heart, relieved to feel the familiar shape of his icon locket safe against his person. 

_ Michael, Holy Protector, _ Victor prays silently _ , If I have indeed met the moment of my expiration I beseech you guide me to the Father’s kingdom and if it is his will let me be spared the punishment of my life’s transgressions.  _

With a fervent  _ amen _ Victor steels himself to meet the afterlife. 

When he opens his eyes, Victor is not greeted with the splendor of the heavenly Jerusalem. Instead he is faced with the nervous presence of two young men, looking very much alive and mortal, staring at him from across a low glass-topped table. For the moment, Victor only has eyes for the second of the pair, the very same man who had been the target of Victor’s reckless pursuit to the heights of the Brooklyn bridge.

“Uh, hi there,” says the stranger with a wave, “How are you feeling?”

“You!” Victor gasps.

“Wow, okay, hang on—“

“Stay back!” Victor orders, grabbing the first implement of defense within his reach, a strange rectangular object made of neither wood nor metal, dotted with rubber buttons. 

“If you are seeking a ransom my uncle won’t pay a cent,” Victor declares, brandishing the bizarre device as if he could even imagine its function. The two strangers step back as Victor makes his courageous stand against the back of the sofa, but their lack of real alarm indicates he likely hasn’t grabbed an appropriate weapon should he need to defend his person.

“Woah, dude, put down the remote. You haven’t been kidnapped,” the young man, Phichit, Victor recalls overhearing, tries to reassure him, “Seriously, I didn’t even mean to drag you back here with me, but you just wouldn’t let me go!”

Victor narrows his eyes.

“If I haven’t been kidnapped, then where am I?” he demands, English feeling clumsy on his tongue, “And how did we survive the fall in to the river?”

Phichit runs his hands through his hair, blowing out a long breath. 

“Okay, um, there’s a short answer and a long answer to both of those questions—”

“The short answer, if you please,” Victor says.  

“A short answer. Right. Um…” The young man, Phichit, glances at his compatriot. His compatriot who happens to be very attractive, were Victor in the mood to be paying such attentions. The other man simply shrugs, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Well,” Phichit says at last, “You’re still in New York. And Manhattan. Only a few blocks from the bridge. In fact,  _ where  _ you are hasn’t really changed at all. It’s...well it’s the  _ when  _ that’s different.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Victor insists, although a sinking in his gut betrays otherwise. Given the picture this stranger is beginning to paint, Victor takes in his unfamiliar surroundings with new eyes. The plain architecture, completely different than even the most spartan tenement. The hum of electricity in the air and the burn of electric lamps around the room giving off a light brighter and cleaner than any Victor has ever beheld. The colors and fabrics in the room, industrial in their make and yet refined, vibrant,  _ alien _ . 

“Yeah, I think you’re getting it,” Phichit continues, “You accidentally chased me through a crack in time. From 1876 directly to 2017. Welcome to the future.”

Following that particular declaration a low buzzing takes up in Victor’s ears. There’s a soft  _ thump _ somewhere hear his stockinged feet and he belatedly realizes his poorly chosen weapon has slipped from his slack fingers. 

“Oh my god, Yuuri I think he’s going to faint—”

“Open a window, get him some air—”

Victor is unable to resist as he’s herded over to a nearby window. The creaking slide of a wooden window frame being pushed upward is the last familiar thing he hears before he’s hit with a wave of fresh air and a barrage of  _ sound _ . Strange honking, the rumbling of engines like something out of an industrial factory, the distant shouts of unknown citizens. None of it recalls the low drone of the city Victor had considered himself familiar with yesterday. Where are the horses? The rattle of carriage wheels across cobblestones? The shout of street vendors hawking their wares?

Ignoring the concern of his keepers, Victor sticks his head out the window and finds himself with access to a strange metal staircase attached to the side of the brick building. Finding the metal latticework beneath him to be secure he crawls out the window and stands to survey the city. 

Victor almost immediately regrets standing. 

There’s so much  _ steel _ . Steel and glass as far as the eye can see, and stretching up higher than Victor can crane his neck. Even the building where he finds himself presently is taller than any feat of residential construction possible in modern times. Or at least, “modern” times as Victor had known them. The streets far below him are paved smooth and black with garish yellow markings and packed with steel carriages all running on what Victor can only guess are internal combustion engines, if the smell of petrol in the air is any clue. 

Victor’s head finally clears of its shock and he spins to face his would-be kidnappers, keeping a white knuckled grip on the wrought iron railing beside him.

“Where am I?” he demands, “What is this place?” 

“We told you, you’re in the twenty-first century—”

“You would have me believe that I am being detained in the year of our Lord two-thousand and seventeen? The hereafter?” Victor shouts insensibly, “That I have fallen through a crack in  _ time _ ?”

“I know it sounds crazy,” Phichit says, hands held out cautiously, “But you of all people should be able to understand how this might be possible. You’re an  _ inventor! _ A scientist, like me! You invented the counterweight pulley, and the elevator—”

“I don’t know what the devil an  _ elevator  _ is,” Victor cuts him off, “I only know I’m either trapped in a nightmare brought on by agita or else I am dead of a five story drop.”

“You aren’t dead, you’re still in New York! Look around!”

You cannot  _ possibly  _ be trying to tell me that  _ that _ —” Victor gestures wildly behind himself to the incomprehensible vista of glass and steel beyond. “--Is New York City.”

“Um...I’m afraid it is.”

Victor’s ire is cooled temporarily as Phichit’s companion speaks for the first time.  

“Listen, I think we’ve all gotten ahead of ourselves here,” he says, voice low and even as if Victor is a spooked thoroughbred, “What’s your name?”  

“...Victor,” he manages to reply at last, his instinctive good manners tacking a short bow onto the admission, “Victor Anatolyavich Nikiforov.” 

“Hi, Victor,” the man said, offering an unsure smile, “I’m Yuuri. This is Phichit. We’re— well,  _ he _ ’s a scientist. He studies time. Usually in the more theoretical sense.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Phichit says, grinning apologetically, “You accidentally got dragged in to my most successful experiment ever.”

Something of Victor’s expression must still carry the pallor of shock, because Phichit’s handsome friend winces.  

“Why don’t you come inside and have some tea?” Yuuri offers, “And maybe sit down and have a look at a few of Phichit’s notes.”

“Tea…” Victor repeats. He could weep for a strong cup with three sugar cubes or a dollop of jam. Anything familiar to ground him in this comically bizarre situation.

“Tea would be nice,” Victor says at last, “Thank you...Yuuri.”

Victor allows himself to be led back into the apartment, and seated at a tiny table where tea is not served from a bubbling copper samovar into china cups, but from a kettle on the countertop that is powered by  _ electricity _ . He receives his tea in a handled ceramic vessel embossed with the curious phrase  _ the physics are theoretical but the fun is real _ .

“Sorry we don’t have anything, uh, European,” Yuuri says as Phichit spreads out a sheaf of diagrams on the table for Victor’s perusal.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Victor assures him, “I’m very grateful for your hospitality. Besides, I’m quite familiar with green tea from East Asia. It was something of a novelty St. Petersburg before I left. Is this from your home country?”

“Um, kind of,” Yuuri replies, pouring his own cup, “I mean I know it from Kyushu but we get it at the Asian market on the corner unless my mom decides to send me a care package.”

“Ah,” Victor says with a nod, as though he had been able to glean more than the most rudimentary meaning of Yuuri’s words. He sips the steaming liquid with relief, although he does reach for several of the small paper sugar packets Yuuri manages to find towards the back of his cabinet once he tastes the earthy flavor.

The clink of Victor’s spoon in his cup and the shuffle of Phichit’s papers is interrupted by a scuffle of little paws on the floor. There’s a soft, high toned  _ boof  _ and Victor finds himself face to face with the most adorable little canine visage he has ever beheld. The pup is resting his front paws on the knee of Victor’s trousers, tail wagging and tongue lolling.

“Who’s this handsome fellow?” Victor asks. The little poodle  _ yips _ , and Yuuri jumps, putting his tea down.

“Ah, Vicchan, no no no. Come here, buddy,” Yuuri says, plucking the little dog from the floor, “Sorry, he just gets excited to meet new people.”

“It’s nothing to apologize for, I love poodles,” Victor says, reaching out to give the pup an ear scratch, “My family kept them as hunting dogs when I was a boy, though they weren’t so precious as yours.”

Yuuri laughs softly. “Vicchan is a mini,” he explains, “He’s only good for hunting socks and pigeons, but we love him.”

“Of course,” Victor replies, laughing as Vicchan sniffs his fingers curiously, “His name is quite unusual. Does it hold a particular meaning?”

“It sure does,” Phichit chimes in, a mischievous gleam in his eye, “Yuuri named him after the famous nineteenth century inventor he had a crush on in undergrad.”

“ _ Phichit _ .”

“Oh,” Victor says, cheeks heating as he deciphers the meaning of Phichit’s phrasing, “I see.”

“Time for Vicchan’s breakfast!” Yuuri announces, voice cracking ever so slightly, “If you’ll excuse me for a second.”

“Of course,” Victor replies, rising from his seat as Yuuri leaves the “kitchen” to serve his canine companion from a brightly colored bag stored in the what must pass for a sitting room in this strange apartment.

Vicchan enjoys his breakfast while Victor awaits the explanation of his journey to the future.

“So some of this is a little heavy on the theory,” Phichit says, having spread his documents out to his liking, “But hopefully you can get the general idea. If you look over here first…”

What follows is a deluge of technical speech far beyond Victor’s comprehension. He had always considered himself something of a learned man, but the mathematics of the time continuum prove beyond his wit. At least Phichit’s swift speech, occasionally interrupted with reluctant contributions from Yuuri, assures Victor that he is indeed among men of science. The intricate details of Phichit’s theorem could hardly have been fabricated as part of some clandestine ruse to keep Victor hostage. 

“I admit, much of this is beyond me,” Victor says when Phichit finally reaches a pause, “However, if I understand correctly…” 

Victor pulls out one technical drawing that catches his eye. A rippling grid of blue lines crosses an architectural schematic of Roebling’s bridge, with markings of longitude and latitude identifying one odd square out from the bunch.

“This is where we fell through.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Phichit says excitedly, “And that’s just one of my drawings. I’ve got better schematics on my laptop on campus. I could go get them!”

“Phichit…” Yuuri warns his friend, casting Victor a concerned look.

“No, no, I would love to see them,” Victor promises, “This is a marvelous achievement, despite my having been caught in the middle of it.”

With Victor’s interest confirmed Phichit explodes into action.

“I’ll just be...an hour,” he promises, pulling on a bright orange overcoat and slinging a satchel over his shoulder, “Maybe less, if the trains are good. I’ll show you everything, and then we’ll figure out how to fix the time space continuum together!” 

Victor barely has time to rise from his seat and offer his new acquaintance a farewell before the front door to the apartment slams shut and he is left alone with Yuuri and Vicchan.

“Sorry about that,” Yuuri says, once the veritable whirlwind has settled, “We’re...I mean  _ Phichit _ is a big fan. You’re um, a very important figure in engineering. It means a lot for him to meet you.”

“The honor is mutual, I’m sure,” Victor replies, sipping his tea. The silence that follows is interrupted by a soft electrical  _ hum.  _ Yuuri pulls a black rectangle from his pocket identical to the one Victor had witnessed Phichit wielding the day before and curses softly in his native tongue.

“Is everything alright?” Victor asks.

“Yeah, I’m just running a little late,” Yuuri says, shifting awkwardly, “Listen, I know this is a lot to take in, but I kind of have to get ready for work—“

“Of course,” Victor says, rising from the table, “My apologies, I’ve kept you from your day for too long. Please feel free to go about your usual schedule, Yuuri.”

“Phichit will be back soon,” Yuuri says, “And he’ll figure out what to do next. For you, I mean.”

“I can look after myself until he returns,” Victor replies, offering Yuuri a short bow, “Thank you again for your hospitality.”

“Um, you’re welcome.” Yuuri returns Victor’s bow. Though it may be from a different time and culture there is something reassuringly familiar about the action.  

“Please feel free to make yourself at home.”

With Victor’s acknowledgment Yuuri steps into what must be his personal chambers. For the first time since he awoke in this strange time and place, Victor finds himself left to his own devices. He leaves his tea at the table and goes to explore, curiosity outweighing his good manners. He keeps his investigation to the sitting room, at least. A public space, Victor reasons with himself. He merely wishes to know more about this new world, and his new friends.

Vicchan follows him, but when he sees Victor isn’t interested in playing he retires to a little cushion tucked beside a bookshelf. 

“Well this is a charming abode, isn’t it, little one?” 

Victor bends to pet Vicchan as he examines the content of the open shelves.

The lower portion of the bookcase is filled with scholarly texts. Thick, hard bound tomes that have Victor’s fingers itching for study, but he leaves them alone for now. Above them photographs line the top shelf, crisp, clear, and in  _ color _ . Not like the daguerreotypes Victor has posed for but a glossy paper image of life itself. Phichit and Yuuri together in black silk tunics with square, tasseled caps holding university diplomas. Yuuri, younger and dressed in the traditional costume of his homeland, smiling with three others who share his round face and warm brown eyes. Yuuri with Phichit again, the two laughing amidst some kind of riotous outdoor spectacle. Victor is taken by the pure joy written across Yuuri’s handsome features, not to mention the sheer amount of color in the image. The scene is crowded with waving banners in the form of Newton’s rainbow. Displayed on the shelf behind the photograph is a miniature of that self same banner.

Victor fingers the colorful stripes curiously. It isn’t the red and white bars of the American flag as he knows it, nor the banner of any other country he has seen displayed while in attendance at his uncle’s court.

“What nation’s flag is this?” He asks Yuuri when he returns to the main room with implements of bathing in his arms.

“Hm? Oh, it’s not…” Yuuri pauses, as if mulling over his next words.

“It’s a gay pride flag,” he says at last.

Victor’s brow furrows.  “A what?”

“It’s...hm, how can I explain this,” Yuuri mumbles to himself, “It’s a symbol to celebrate people who, um, prefer their own gender? Or to let us celebrate with each other, I guess.”

“Celebrate…” Somehow Yuuri’s words are far more confusing to Victor than any of Phichit’s science lecture had been. “And it’s permissible to do this celebrating in public? Safe?”

“Um, yeah? I mean once you get out of the big cities around here things get more complicated, and there’s always a few holdouts no matter where you go—” Yuuri must see Victor’s utter incomprehension, because he clears his throat before answering much more concisely, “Yes, though. We celebrate in public. And plenty of other things. Anything a man and a woman can do.”

“I see.” The low buzzing has taken up once more in Victor’s ears. Gentlemen free to pursue their own sex as freely as they would a woman? To enjoy the intricacies and rituals of courting with impunity? “I see your society has progressed in more than just the sciences.”

“Progress isn’t a straight line,” Yuuri says, “But yeah. Same-sex couples can even get married now. In America, anyway.”

“...married,” Victor repeats weakly. 

Marriage. The promise of eternal love. 

Victor’s vision tunnels and for a moment he’s washed in the light of flickering candles. Saints watch over from their panels as Victor slips a gold ring onto a masculine finger. A low voice murmurs vows to cherish and protect. 

Victor swallows, throat tight.

“Excuse me, please,” he manages, hand on the icon under his shirt, “I think I need a few minutes alone.”

Yuuri nods and goes about his business, leaving Victor to his musings. Down a short hallway the door closes and Victor hears the  _ shhh  _ of running water. Water closet technology hasn’t changed that much, at least.

Alone in the sitting room again, Victor kneels before a simple end table. He carefully shifts a pile of what he assumes to be Yuuri or Phichit’s personal correspondence and pulls his locket from inside his shirt. Leaving the gold chain around his neck, Victor balances the open locket on the table, that he might focus his vision on the two icons contained within. His native Russian slips effortlessly from his lips as Victor crosses himself and recites his morning prayers, passing his gaze reverently between Michael the Archangel and the Blessed Virgin holding the miniature Christ child in her lap. They return his gaze, their solemn, benevolent expressions calming Victor instantly.

“Michael, my patron,” Victor murmurs once his daily recitations are complete, eyes fixed on the handsome visage of the painted archangel, “I find myself a stranger in a strange land. Protect me from the dangers that may cross my path, and grant my new companions fortitude and wisdom in the pursuit of their new science.”

Victor pauses, willing his prayer to the ears of his patron saint before turning to his image of the Madonna. Victor’s prayer to the Holy Mother is no less heartfelt, but far more personal. His mouth is dry as he murmurs another Hail Mary. With one last  _ amen _ Victor dares to voice his request.

“Blessed Virgin, seat of wisdom, guide this humble sinner through the new world I have found myself in,” Victor entreats, folded hands pressed firmly to his brow, “If it is the will of your Son that I be free to follow my desires in this time of progress then show me your blessing. Grant me a signal that I need not shrink from this miracle but may embrace it.”

Down the hall the murmur of running water cuts off, and it’s only a few moments later the washroom door opens and Yuuri steps out, haloed by a cloud of steam.

No degree of piety could keep Victor’s mind on his prayers when he glances up to find his new acquaintance clad only in a frayed cotton towel. Yuuri appears to be rubbing his hair dry with a second towel as he makes the short journey to his chambers. He hasn’t been too careful in drying himself, as Victor is able to trace the path of several water droplets down the toned form of Yuuri’s torso. Victor swallows, mouth dry again. Yuuri has a lovely figure. His chest is firm, his stomach soft, his calves well turned and his skin smooth and warm, a bit pinked from the heat of his bath. 

Yuuri pauses in toweling his hair, and Victor realizes he has been caught staring. Despite their conversation just moments ago Victor’s first reaction is a swoop of fear. However Yuuri does not appear to be adverse to Victor’s looking. In fact his reaction could even be termed  _ reciprocal _ . His gaze traces slowly up Victor’s kneeling figure before catching his eye for a moment too long. Yuuri looks once towards his chambers, then back, his teeth catching briefly on his bottom lip.

Victor has been the recipient of such a look a few times in his life, but never in such strange circumstances, nor by a man so alluring. Still, he cannot mistake such a clear summons.

Victor stares as Yuuri drops his gaze and vanishes into the bedroom, leaving the door open just a crack. He looks back to his icons. The Virgin’s benevolent smile looks distinctly coy.

“Holy Mother, I will take that as your sign,” Victor murmurs, bringing the image to his lips before closing the locket and tucking it quickly back into his shirt.

Yuuri has his back turned as Victor slips into his chambers. He has replaced his towel with fitted black smallclothes, and his hands work at the buttons of a collared white shirt. 

Victor makes his overture as the door closes behind him with a soft  _ click _ . 

“I would think this is would be the moment for taking clothes  _ off _ , not putting them on.”

Victor had imagined several reactions from Yuuri in regards to his flirtation.

A strangled shout of alarm was not one of them. 

“ _ What are you doing in here? _ ” Yuuri exclaims, tumbling to the floor in the middle of pulling on a sock. He hisses in pain, rubbing his backside where he landed harshly on the floor. 

“My god, are you alright?” Victor exclaims, rushing forward.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Yuuri assures him, waving off Victor’s assistance, “Ow.”

“I swear I didn’t intend to startle you—”

“Then why are you  _ in my room? _ ”

“I thought you intended me to join you,” Victor explains, hovering awkwardly as Yuuri stumbles to his feet, “Your, ah, state of dress, and the way you looked at me, I thought—”

“I was  _ just  _ looking!” Yuuri replies, hurriedly pulling on rumpled black trousers, “I mean, not  _ looking _ — but just— anyway I didn’t think you would follow me in here to—”

“Clearly I have misunderstood,” Victor says, a flush high on his cheeks, “I am accustomed to regarding such a look from another man as...as a kind of  _ invitation _ —”

“Oh- _ oh, _ no,” Yuuri exclaims, “I mean not that I’m not—a-and that you aren’t—that I wouldn’t—“

“My apologies,” Victor says, to ease Yuuri’s nervous stammering more than anything else. He steps back, open hands raised. “I simply, ah, read from the wrong manual, as the tradesmen would say. I should have known better than to assume.”

“No...no,” Yuuri says, sitting on his bed to finish the job of pulling on his socks, “It’s okay. Just a misunderstanding, right? I mean a hundred and fifty years of social convention between us, some wires were bound to get crossed.”

His feet safely ensconced in their mismatched stockings, Yuuri drops his face into his hands and blows out a long breath.

“Are you sure you’re quite well?” Victor asks, cautiously joining Yuuri on the edge of his bed.

“Sorry, I’m fine, I swear,” Yuuri apologizes, stifling a slightly hysterical chuckle, “I just can’t believe...with everything that’s happened to you since last night and you still followed me in here just because you thought I gave you the right kind of look?”

Victor sighs, laughing a little himself.  

“I suppose I can see the source of your amusement,” he admits, fiddling with a bit of trim on his lapel, “But in my own time I have learned to take advantage of such liaisons when they present themselves. ...particularly when the liaison in question might be one as handsome as yourself.”

“Oh. Um...thank you,” Yuuri says, “That’s very flattering. And I know what you mean. Meeting people is still tricky, even today.”

“But?” Victor prompts. 

“But the secret signals and locked doors, you don’t need them,” Yuuri explains, before amending, “Well, some do. And some people  _ like  _ that kind of thing, but there’s plenty of ways to show you’re interested in somebody that are okay in public.”

“In public?” 

“Sure. Like in your time, there must be touches that are appropriate between men and women who are...um...courting?” Yuuri says, “Just imagine the same thing but with another man.”

“Touches,” Victor repeats, daring to shift closer. Telegraphing his every move, he reaches out to brush his hand against Yuuri’s own. 

“So...something like this, might be acceptable?” he asks, twining their fingers together. Yuuri stares at the point of contact between them, nodding slightly.

“...yes.” 

“And this?” Victor asks again before bowing over their joined hands to brush a kiss against Yuuri’s knuckles. Yuuri laughs again, a soft, musical sound, but he nods.

“That would be really old fashioned now,” he says, “But yeah, it’s okay. Might impress the right date, even.” 

“I see.” Despite Yuuri’s lighthearted words his hand is trembling slightly in Victor’s grasp, his body leaning in towards Victor’s own. His eyes caught on Yuuri’s mouth, Victor dares to press the pad of his thumb to the soft swell of the man’s lower lip. 

“And this?” Victor asks, voice hardly more than a whisper. He finds himself hypnotized by the warm brown of Yuuri’s eyes. He swears he can see flecks of gold hidden in their depths as they flick down to Victor’s lips.

“Yes,” Yuuri breathes before Victor dips down the scant space between them to press their lips together.

The kiss is soft. Chaste. Stunning. Victor has had few lovers, and fewer sweethearts. He can count the kisses he has traded on two hands, less if he discards those that were only a side-effect of clandestine fumblings, destined only to satisfy momentary lust. Not one holds a candle to this: Yuuri tucked in close, the curve of his mouth fitted to Victor’s own in a way that threatens to leave him breathless for the first time in years.

Victor had thought himself practically a fossil, all desire within him petrified down to nothing. And yet here was, heart crackling to life again in his chest.

_ Like Edison’s electricity _ , Victor thinks.

Yuuri’s expression could best be described as  _ dazed _ when they finally part. Victor doesn’t draw back too far, loathe to forfeit the rarified air between them.

“So,” Victor manages at last, breath short in his lungs, “That sort of...touch...between us would be acceptable, say, down on the nearest street corner?”

Yuuri’s gaze is fixed on Victor’s lips as he shakes his head slowly.

“I think that kind of kiss is still better to keep in private,” Yuuri says, smoothing our Victor’s lapels absently, “N-not because it’s wrong. Just—“

“I understand,” Victor murmurs, “Such a thing should only be known between the two who share it.” 

“Yeah.”

Victor considers taking the liberty of another kiss when there’s a soft  _ yip  _ from the living room, and Yuuri jumps.

“Oh, Vicchan!” He exclaims, rising from their intimate position to pull a sweater over his head. “He still needs to go out again before I go.”

“Out?” Victor repeats, admittedly distracted as Yuuri bends to grab a leather case from beneath his bed and inadvertently gives Victor a stunning display of his well-shaped backside.

“Yeah, yeah, come on,” Yuuri urges, slipping a tie over his shoulders before stumbling back into the living room. Victor follows obediently, observing silently as Yuuri murmurs apologies to his miniature companion.

“I’m sorry buddy,” Yuuri says, clipping a slim lead to Vicchan’s collar, “I made you wait all morning and you’ve been so good. Who’s my good boy?”

With Vicchan in tow Yuuri pulls on a light jacket and goes to the main door. There is a row of shoes laid out on a neat tray just beside it. Victor spots his boots there, and tugs them on while Yuuri slips into a pair of scuffed oxfords. He grabs a set of keys from a hook at eye-level, and undoes a series of locks on the door.

“You should come with us,” Yuuri says, “You can walk Vicchan back up so I can get the train on time. I’ll leave you my key for today.”

“...alright,” Victor agrees, following Yuuri hesitantly out of the apartment. Vicchan eagerly leads the way down several flights of stairs until they emerge into a sunny antechamber. Yuuri heads directly for a revolving glass door, beyond which Victor can see a veritable flood of human beings, each of them bearing some new marker of this strange future Victor has found himself adrift in.  

“Victor?” Yuuri looks at him with concern, Vicchan weaving around his legs and barking. “Are you coming?”

“...yes,” Victor says before clearing his throat, “Yes. Lead the way.” 

Yuuri offers him a smile before slipping through the doors and out into the street. 

Victor takes a deep breath, touches the locket over his heart, and follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being from different centuries does not help the fact that Victor and Yuuri are both hot awkward nerds, lmao.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you'll subscribe ;) Comments also inspire me to keep writing!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, sorry for the wait. I feel like i'm back on a roll so stay tuned for more soon hopefully!

What had Phichit gotten Yuuri tangled up in?

“Hello! Hello—oh, I beg your pardon, madame. Good morning—” 

It’s only a block up to Vicchan’s favorite tree, but it’s never taken Yuuri this long to make the walk. The delay is, of course, thanks to Yuuri’s new friend the Duke of St. Petersburg. If Victor isn’t asking Yuuri questions a mile a minute then he’s dragging them to a near standstill in his attempt to politely greet every man, woman, and child that they brush by on the sidewalk. Attempts at conversation and bowing from a tall Russian man who looks like he just walked off the set of  _ Anna Karenina  _ is about as well received by the pedestrians of lower Manhattan as one might expect. 

“Yuuri, are people so rude in two-thousand and seventeen?” Victor asks, his distractingly attractive mouth drawn up into a pout, “Everyone is staring but no one says hello.”

Yuuri sighs. Victor isn’t being intentionally obtuse. He’s been transplanted a century and a half into the future with no warning, and his only response beyond the first exclamations of shock has been curiosity and excitement. Yuuri doubts he would be handling things so well if their positions were reversed.

“They’re not being rude, manners are just different now,” Yuuri tries to explain, “In a crowded street people want to be anonymous—”

Yuuri pauses when he realizes Victor has vanished from his side. He panics for about two seconds before he turns around and catches a glint of silver hair and a matching pair of broad shoulders. Victor is standing stock still in the middle of the sidewalk, creating an awkward traffic jam as he stares at the display window of a used electronics shop. The stacks of busted tape decks and grainy monitor images are about as jarring as possible against the expensive velvet and gold braid of Victor’s period costume, and Yuuri isn’t the only one noticing. He needs to get this wayward duke moving before someone mistakes him for some kind of street performer. 

“Hey! Hey, Victor.” 

Victor looks around in confusion before he spots Yuuri again and jogs to catch up to him.

“I know this is a lot to take in, but you have to stay with me,” Yuuri says, “If you get lost I don’t have any way to find you, and then who knows what’ll happen to the space time continuum.”

“My apologies,” Victor says, looking chastened, “I didn’t mean to cause a delay.”

Yuuri takes a deep breath, letting Vicchan lead them down the sidewalk.

“It’s okay,” he says at last, “But can I give you some quick twenty-first century etiquette advice?” 

“Yes, of course,” Victor replies, before stopping again to bow and offer a “good morning” to a group of giggling art students gathered outside a Starbucks.

“Ok, first rule,” Yuuri says, “You don’t have to greet everybody you see on the street.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, in fact it’s kind of rude,” Yuuri explains, “Just say ‘excuse me’ if you actually bump into someone.”

“Oh.”

Yuuri watches as Victor steels himself and deliberately withholds his greetings to several people who pass them by in the sidewalk. He smiles at Victor’s barely contained expression of chagrin.

“This etiquette is making me feel very churlish,” he confesses.

“Just think of it like a different country,” Yuuri advises him, “With different customs.”

“Ah, this I am accustomed to,” Victor says, relaxing slightly, “‘When in Rome’, I believe is the English idiom?”

“Exactly,” Yuuri replies, “I went through the same thing myself when I moved to the states for school. Nobody bowed, and everybody called me by my first name before they even knew me.”

“I am getting to know exactly how you must have felt, I think,” Victor agrees.

Their conversation is drowned out for a moment by the passing of a news helicopter overhead. Vicchan isn’t a fan, and he whines before scurrying between Yuuri’s legs. Yuuri manages to sidestep Vicchan’s leash to avoid getting tangled but he quickly realizes he’s left Victor behind yet again. The duke is staring up at the sky with a slack jaw, the morning rush parting around him like a school of fish around a stone in a river.

“Rule number two,” Yuuri says as he grabs Victor by the bicep to get him moving again, “You can’t just stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk. It blocks traffic and people are trying to get to work.”

“Ah, this rule I know,” Victor admits, shaking his head and bringing his attention back to earth as the helicopter passes them by. his gaze catches on Yuuri’s hand where it grips his arm and his cheeks go slightly pink. Yuuri lets go, a matching blush warming his own face as they both hastily redirect their gazes towards Vicchan.

“Ahem, so yeah,” Yuuri continues, “If you need to stop try and get to the edge of the sidewalk so you aren’t in the way.”

Victor nods. “Duly noted.”

They finally make it to the biggest patch of grass that Yuuri’s neighborhood has to offer. Vicchan does his business while Yuuri and Victor turn their backs politely. Victor’s expression has gone pensive, and Yuuri certainly has enough on his mind, so he lets the silence hang for the time being and finally turns his attention to the day ahead. Victor would soon be returned to the apartment and Phichit’s supervision, and Yuuri has to head in to the office.

Despite the bizarre development that is Victor’s appearance, Yuuri’s professional life can’t just be put on hold. His last round of auditions for a  _ Grand Prix _ spokesperson turned out to be a wash, and thanks to Phichit and their unexpected guest Yuuri is already late to the next group which he _ ’ _ s supposed to be supervising. 

Even with his concerns about the inconsistent safety data, Yuuri has to find an actor for their TV ads  _ today _ or he can kiss his rising profile at the company goodbye.

Vicchan  _ yips _ , drawing Yuuri out of his thoughts. 

“All set, buddy?” Yuuri coos to his poodle, “Let’s get you and Victor home. …Victor?”

Victor hasn’t left Yuuri’s side, at least, but his attention is far away, fixed in awe on the East River front only a few blocks away.

“Holy Mother,” he breathes, “It still stands.”

“What?” Yuuri asks, craning over Victor’s shoulder.

“The bridge, Yuuri,” Victor exclaims, “Roebling’s bridge!”

“The...Brooklyn Bridge?”

“Yes, yes!” Victor can hardly contain himself, “I just saw it unveiled yesterday, and here it is. What a monument to Man’s achievement!”

Victor’s enthusiasm is infectious, and Vicchan barks excitedly pawing at Victor’s fitted breeches.

“I know, little one,” Victor says, going down on one knee to give Vicchan an earnest head scratch, “Is there anything more thrilling than the drive of progress?”

_ The drive of progress. _

Yuuri nearly gasps to hear those words trip off Victor’s tongue in his soft edged Russian accent, his eyes bright with genuine awe at the same bridge Yuuri walks past every day.

“Victor?” Yuuri asks, “Say that again?”

With one more ruffle of Vicchan’s ears Victor rises to his feet, fixing Yuuri with the full weight of his earnest gaze.

“Progress, Yuuri,” he repeats, a warm smile playing at his lips, “There is nothing more thrilling than the drive of progress.”

Yuuri is struck by a terrible idea. He can’t even begin to think of all the ways this could go wrong.  And yet...

“Victor,” he says, “How would you like to see some more of the city?”

Victor beams. “I would love to!”

Phichit is not as enthused. Yuuri waits until they’ve returned Vicchan to the apartment and are already on their way to the train before he calls his roommate to share his change of plans.

“Yuuri, this is a terrible idea.”

Yuuri sighs into his iPhone. He’d been hoping to get Phichit’s voicemail. 

“I know.” 

“Like, I can’t even tell you all the ways this could go wrong.”

“Yes, believe me, I know,” Yuuri replies again.

“Yuuri, who are you talking to?” Victor asks, examining Yuuri’s phone curiously.

“It’s just Phichit, Victor,” Yuuri explains, ignoring his roommates continuing diatribe, “We’re talking on the phone. A telephone?”

“A tele—oh, Bell’s talking telegram!” Victor exclaims, “I saw one demonstrated at the World’s Fair last year. But how is it so small? How does it connect to the necessary wires? Can you friend hear me now? Hello, Phichit—”

“Sorry Phi, we’re getting on the train,” Yuuri says, ignoring Victor’s antics as they descend the sticky staircase that leads to the Uptown R platform, “Don’t worry about Victor, I already explained and he’s totally on board. See you tonight!”

Getting Victor on the subway is...interesting. He finds the process of buying a MetroCard fascinating, and the turnstile a little intimidating. Once onboard, Victor adapts quickly to the etiquette of the train. Mind your own business, let the elderly sit down, and don’t take up more space than you absolutely have to. Victor seems to really take the last rule to heart, pressing a little closer than necessary when he and Yuuri find an empty handhold to share. 

Not that Yuuri is complaining. The first jolt under their feet causes Victor to lose his balance, and only Yuuri’s timely grip on his bicep keeps him from colliding with a nearby passenger.

“Here, you’ve got to spread your feet a little,” Yuuri explains, pressing his hand between Victor’s shoulder blades to steady him, “And don’t lock your knees.”

“Michael protect us,” Victor curses, though he’s grinning as he copies Yuuri’s posture, “Surely men weren’t meant to travel at such speeds standing up.”

“This isn’t even that fast,” Yuuri says, laughing, “You should see the bullet trains they have in Asia now.”

“The name certainly gives an illustrative impression,” Victor replies, still focused on his feet.

They hit the first curve, and with it another jolt, but this time Victor only jostles slightly, bending his knees a little to absorb the impact.

“Nice,” Yuuri congratulates him, “You’ll get your sea legs in no time.”

Victor laughs, shifting his grip just slightly closer to Yuuri’s on the steel handrail.

“So explain to me again what your trade is, exactly?” Victor requests they’ve passed a few stops and the novelty of the journey has worn off.

“I work for a car company,” Yuuri replies, “I help design ads.”

“Advertisements,” Victor repeats, nodding, “For the ‘Grand Prix’.”

“Right,” Yuuri continues, “I showed you the photos.”

“Mm,” Victor hums, “A beautiful invention, to be sure. I’m sure plenty of people will wish to purchase one.”

“They will if I find the right guy to be the face of the brand,” Yuuri says.

“And you think I could be this right ‘guy’,” Victor continues, only hesitating briefly over the modern word.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, “I mean you’ve got the outfit, and the voice and, you know, your face.”

“Ah, thank you,” Victor replies, “I enjoy your voice and face also.”

Victor’s eyes are crinkled with mirth when Yuuri glances up. It makes the duke look young, Yuuri thinks, and nothing like the historical photograph in his old undergrad textbook. Their eyes meet, and all the sudden Yuuri is very aware of how closely together they’re standing, shoulders brushing thanks to the gentle rocking of the train beneath their feet. He notices that the velvet of Victor’s coat makes a peculiar soft sound against Yuuri’s regular shirt and tie. 

After a long moment Victor is the first to look away, though he seems to do it more out of propriety than any sense of awkwardness. Yuuri clears his throat and resettles his bag more firmly on his shoulder, though he doesn’t put any more space between them even though the car has emptied out some as they head uptown.

“So tell me more about this performance I’m to give?” Victor asks eventually.

“It’s only an audition,” Yuuri explains, “But if it goes well you’ll be an actor in a commercial.”

“My uncle would be appalled,” Victor says, looking pleased, “I will give it my best effort.”

“I’m sure you’ll be great,” Yuuri assures him, “Thank you, Victor.”

“It’s my pleasure, Yuuri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In totally shocking news, Victor is a huge Victorian flirt. who would have guessed??   
> As always, be sure to share and subscribe!


	5. Chapter 5

Yuuri’s place of business is...interesting. They emerge from the underground, and Yuuri leads Victor into a glass and steel building so high that he can’t crane his neck to see the top of it. Yuuri does his best to prepare him for the “audition” to come as they climb several flights of stairs (how has humanity managed to erect constructions that nearly scrape the heavens but no mechanical means of reaching the upper floors?). Once they reach their destination things begin to move very quickly, and Victor can only send up a heartbeat’s prayer to his patron saint for courage and trust that Yuuri won’t lead him into harm’s way.

“So if I understand, this is meant to be given in direct address,” Victor says some minutes later, shifting uncomfortably on the mark he’s been given instructions to stand upon. He’s in a  _ recording studio _ , having had his face powdered and his hair adjusted by a friendly female coworker of Yuuri’s. The task set before him is known as a  _ screen test _ , Yuuri explained a few minutes prior, and there is a room of strangers watching remotely who will offer their opinions on his performance. He finds the situation entirely puzzling, but if it will be helpful to handsome Yuuri’s professional aspirations Victor certainly isn’t going to voice an objection to participating. Besides, the large piece of equipment he’s facing down bears a far more reasonable resemblance to his notion of a “camera” than the slim glass and metal device Yuuri tried to explain to him on the underground train. From the other side of a massive pane of glass, Yuuri bends slightly to speak to him via a small electronic receiver.

“That’s right, Victor,” he says, “Just look into the camera and read the words on the screen. Pretend...pretend you’re just talking to me. The way you thought we were talking this morning.”

Tinted glass doesn’t entirely hide the blush that decorates Yuuri’s cheek as he delivers his instructions, and Victor’s own face warms as he realizes the “conversation” to which Yuuri is referring.

“Ah,” Victor says, clearing his throat before returning his arms safely to their polite position behind his back, “So there should be an element of seduction to this performance, then.”

Yuuri’s response is less an articulated reply and more like a strangled squeak.

“Um, no! I mean, uh, just do your best!” he says at last, “Cameras set take one for Victor N-uh, I mean Duke. Victor Duke!”

“Alright, quiet everyone,” the gentleman behind the camera instructs, “And...action.”

With glowing words beginning to scroll down a screen in front of him, Victor has nothing to do but stand straight, keep his shoulders back, and imagine that he is looking directly into the warm brown eyes of Mr. Yuuri Katsuki.

A soft smile curls at his lips as he begins to read.

“Is there anything more thrilling than the drive of progress? Only experiencing that progress in a cradle of elegance and taste…”

~

“ _ Power, at your fingertips. Sophistication at the touch of a button. The 2017 Grand Prix is more than a car, it’s a marvel of engineering.” _

“Holy shit Yuuri,” Sara whispers as Victor’s voice emanates from the speakers in the recording booth like a siren’s call, “Where did you find this guy? 

“He, uh, lives in my building,” Yuuri replies, unable to take his eyes off of the performance happening on the other side of the glass. Victor is  _ magnetic _ , even more than Yuuri had dared to hope, and he’s not the only one noticing. Their focus groups, bored and fidgety when Yuuri had walked in, are riveted from where he can see them on the monitor. The company executives, skeptical when Yuuri had walked in late with an unrepresented amateur, have likewise fallen silent. Christophe had been cautiously willing to indulge Yuuri’s eccentric candidate. Now he’s grinning rakishly, a twinkle in his eye that Yuuri’s had learned tends to translate into dollar signs.

It’s because Victor  _ isn’t  _ performing. The opening lines of their script had come across tinny and unauthentic from nearly every actor they’d tried, but for Victor the passion is real. His delivery is warm and confident, everything that had been missing from Yuuri’s previous candidates, no matter how aristocratic their performance. Victor’s Old World dignity is tempered by his bright eyed enthusiasm for invention, with a certain  _ edge _ that Yuuri can’t afford to examine too closely while he’s at work. 

Victor’s version of seduction happens to correlate dangerously with Yuuri’s adolescent engineering nerd fantasies. And his less adolescent ones.

“ _ Rated best in its class for luxury, performance, and safety, the 2017 Grand Prix.”  _

Victor turns his gaze into the camera for the final line, and Yuuri swears the duke’s blue eyes are looking directly at  _ him _ . 

_ “Don’t you deserve the best?” _

“Oh my god,” Sara mutters, fanning herself as the cameraman calls cut. Yuuri couldn’t have said it better himself.

In the sound booth, Victor startles as the crew move around him, as though he’d forgotten they were there. He looks up at the glass divider, his seductive smolder replaced by an uncertain smile.

“Yuuri?” He asks, smoothing down his cravat, “Did I do alright?”

Yuuri almost trips finding the intercom button. 

“You did g—” Yuuri’s voice cracks, to his utter mortification. 

“Great,” he repeats, clearing his throat, “That was great, Victor.  Can we try a few more takes?”

Victor beams, and offers Yuuri an elegant bow. 

“I am at your service.”

“Uh, great,” Yuuri says again, since apparently that’s the only word he knows now. In the reflection of the glass Yuuri catches Christophe staring at Victor from his seat in the back with the other executives. His gaze is appraising, but returns to his flirty norm when he sees Yuuri is watching. He offers Yuuri a wink before turning back to the board member who’s talking to him. 

Yuuri focuses back on Victor, offering him a thumbs up before pressing the intercom once more.  

“Alright, cameras set for take two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, so sorry for taking so long with this! Grad school life is really draining my creative energy. Next time you can count on a longer chapter, this had to end here for a better transition. Thanks everyone for reading and for all your lovely kudos and comments!!


	6. Chapter 6

By Yuuri’s standards, it’s been a wildly successful afternoon. Victor was a huge hit with the focus groups, so much so that the executives decided to sign him for a commercial appearance right then and there.

After an hour of filling out only _mostly_ falsified paperwork on Victor’s behalf, Yuuri is finally on his way home for the day with the aforementioned duke in tow. Yuuri is following Victor through the glass doors of the main entrance when he’s stopped with a sensual grip on his upper arm.

“ _Excellent_ work today, Yuuri.”

“What--Oh, Chris,” Yuuri breathes, surprised, “Thank you. It was, um, just happenstance, really, that I found Victor at all.”

“Mm, don’t give away the credit,” Christophe insists, his grip shifting to between Yuuri’s shoulder blades as he guides him through the doors, “This was a spectacular triumph for you.”

Christophe leans in close, nearly murmuring in Yuuri’s ear. “We’re going to have a lot to talk about at dinner.”

“Um—”

“Yuuri, who is this?”

“Oh, Victor!” Yuuri steps away from Christophe to notice Victor, who has been waiting outside the doors for several seconds, “You should meet Chris— I mean Christophe Giacometti. He’s the advertising director for Grand Prix.”

“How do you do,” Victor greets him politely, which Christophe seems to find amusing.

“Ah, our mystery talent! Mr...hm, Duke, was it?” Christophe asks with a peculiar edge to his voice, circling Victor, “Nice work today. You certainly gave us a unique take.”

Victor’s eyes narrow, but he offers Christophe a short bow, hands folded neatly behind his back.

“It was my pleasure to assist Mr. Katsuki.”

Christophe laughs, brushing an imaginary bit of lint off of Victor’s shoulder. “Ah, a method actor, I see. Well keep it up, Duke. You’re going to sell us a lot of cars.”

Victor is looking at his shoulder where Christophe touched him, one eyebrow raised.

“I will aspire to do my best.”  

“Wonderful. And I love the suit, by the way. Great choice.”

Christophe turns back to Yuuri. “I’ll see you at nine, _Mr. Katsuki._ ”

“Uh, right,” Yuuri replies, moving to stand next to Victor, “Looking forward to it.”

Christophe disappears into a waiting town car, leaving Victor and Yuuri on the sidewalk.

“Um, if we head around the corner, it’s usually easier to get a cab near the park,” Yuuri says, securing his laptop case on his shoulder, “There’s not much point in taking the train, it’ll be a nightmare this time of day.”

Victor’s expression remains pursed, but he nods and follows Yuuri amicably down the sidewalk. They share a thoughtful silence as they approach a nearby intersection, the air filled with the late afternoon hustle and bustle of the city.

“I gather you’re dining with Mr. Giacometti tonight,” Victor eventually says, apropos of nothing.

“Hm?” Yuuri asks, eyes on the crossing light, “Oh, yeah. Christophe invited me out to discuss my future at the company.”

“You’ll require a chaperone,” Victor says, nodding firmly as they cross the street, Central Park coming in to view just around the corner, “His intentions are obvious.”

Yuuri almost laughs. “A chaperone?” he repeats, confused.

“If public relationships between those with predilections such as ours are truly as commonplace as you say, then surely you would also follow proper etiquette in pursuing them,” Victor says, equally puzzled, “I am happy to offer my services—”

“I don’t need a _chaperone_ with Chris,” Yuuri insists, a blush heating his cheeks, “I mean look at us, now, walking alone. We don’t need a chaperone, do we?"

“We are not courting, Yuuri,” Victor points out, “If we were, as a man of honor I would have notified you of my intentions in writing.”

“W-writing?” Yuuri sputters, “We, uh, don’t really do that anymore. Things are usually less...explicit.”

Victor frowns. “What a shame. Your style of romance seems ripe for misunderstandings.”

“ _Anyway_ , Chris doesn’t have any _intentions_ ,” Yuuri continues, “We definitely aren’t courting. This is a business dinner.”

Victor’s expression is doubtful, but apparently his manners are too refined to continue arguing the point. They walk along the edge of Central Park, a landmark Victor is actually somewhat familiar with, until they reach a main entrance where a cabstand waits alongside the usual row of white horse-drawn carriages.

“Why don’t we take one of these?” Victor asks, pointing to the available carriage. Yuuri smiles, but shakes his head.

“Those are for tourists,” he says, waving to a slowing taxi, “Come on, Victor—”

Yuuri words are cut short by a sharp jolt as his laptop case is tugged from his shoulder.

“Hey!”

Yuuri catches his balance to see a teenager in a hoodie disappearing into the park, his laptop case clutched under his arm.

Maybe it’s been the stress of the last couple of days, but seven years of city living instincts disappear from Yuuri’s brain and are replaced with one thought:

“That’s my laptop, asshole!”

And then Yuuri gives chase. He can hear Victor’s confused call of “Yuuri?” behind him, but he’s already running down the path trying to catch up with the youth who grabbed his bag right off his shoulder. The kid looks over his shoulder, fake Ray-bans slipping off in shock as he realizes Yuuri is actually coming after him. He picks up speed and Yuuri does his best to follow suit.

“You’re not getting away with this!”

Yuuri makes it down the path and halfway across a baseball field before his mostly sedentary lifestyle catches up to him and he loses steam. He slows to a jog, clutching a stitch in his side. Way ahead of him, the thief is almost off the field already, nearly assured of a clean getaway.

“Ugh, fuck _,_ ” Yuuri curses, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He’d just paid off his macbook pro, not to mention all the personal information he had saved on his hard drive. This means changing all his passwords and calling his bank, and—

_Clop clop clop._

What’s that sound?

_Clopclopclopclop—_

Is that...hooves?

“Yuuri!”

“Victor?”

 _Oh my god_.

Yuuri turns and _somehow_ Victor is on a horse. On a real-life horse, coming at Yuuri at a full gallop and—

“Yuuri, give me your hand!”

Sure enough, Victor is reaching down for him as he approaches.

On a _horse_. Has he mentioned the horse?

“My what?” Yuuri calls back.

“Your hand, man,” Victor repeats, circling around Yuuri impatiently, “Give me your hand!”

“Are you insane?” Yuuri shouts, but sure enough he sticks out his hand, bends his knees, and then Victor is pulling him up, up, _up,_ until Yuuri is unstably but inarguably sitting on a horse. Victor barely even pauses, urging their equine ride onwards with a sharp _Hah!_

In moments they regain ground on the thief, not that Yuuri particularly looking in that direction, more occupied with his new relative position in the world.

“Victor, I’m going to fall!” Yuuri shouts, every hit of the horse’s hooves jarring up his spine.

“Just hold on!” Victor replies, pulling Yuuri up with a grip on his thigh until Yuuri is flush against Victor’s back.

 _What just happened?_ Yuuri wonders as he clings on to Victor’s waist for dear life, doing his best not to get bounced off of a _galloping horse_.

_When did my life become a pulp adventure novel?_

Victor directs their mounted pursuit expertly, dodging trees and tourists alike. In moments he has their thief cornered against a sealed maintenance tunnel.

“Halt, scoundrel!” Victor demands, swinging the leather reins of the horse’s bridle threateningly. The teenager backs up against the door, eyeing the horse’s hooves where it paws at the ground.

“What the hell, man?!”

“I warn you, blackguard,” Victor continues, “I was trained to ride by the Imperial cavalry, and in close quarter combat by the Emperor’s own guard. You have no chance of escape, for where you run I will ride, and where you stop, you will feel the sting of my strap. Yield, and our conflict ends here.”

Overwhelmed, the thief tosses Yuuri’s briefcase into the dirt at their feet before scampering off.

“Yes, run, coward!” Victor calls after him, dismounting gracefully in order to retrieve Yuuri’s bag. He brushes the worst of the dirt off before offering it to Yuuri with a gallant bow.

“Wow,” Yuuri says, accepting the laptop case, “Thanks.”

“Any gentleman would have done the same,” Victor replies, “Now, let’s return this horse to his master.”

It’s a comparatively calm saunter back to the park entrance, where Victor helps Yuuri down off the horse with a firm grip on his waist.

“There you are,” Victor says, face handsomely flushed, “All in one piece, yes?

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, heart still racing, “Really, Victor, thank you.”

Victor smooths down Yuuri’s collar where it had gotten rumpled in his chase.

“Think nothing of it, Yuuri,” he assures him.

The carriage driver Victor “borrowed” a horse from accepts his charge back with surprisingly few complaints. Yuuri offers him a large tip as compensation for his lost business while Victor efficiently clips the white horse, perplexingly named “Tofu,” back into his harness.

“Your boyfriend’s a very good rider,” the carriage driver informs Yuuri in a thick Brooklyn accent as Victor strokes Tofu’s nose and offers her a bite of apple.

“Uh...yeah,” Yuuri replies, not bothering to correct the driver’s assumption, “I guess he is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up: A shopping montage! And the long awaited "business dinner"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the business dinner: part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, I'll be breaking this chapter up, mostly in the interest of keeping up my posting momentum! Thank you so much for all the lovely comments! I treasure each and every one and they make me so inspired to continue this fic. Thanks for not giving up despite the long hiatus!

“Yuuri, may I repeat my offer to serve as a chaperone?” Victor says, hovering in the doorway as Yuuri pulls on his nicer sweater over a fresh shirt and tie.

“No, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Thank you though, Victor.”

Normally Yuuri would bristle at the repeated insistence of the offer, but Victor’s concern is so genuine that it’s kind of endearing.

“What are you two getting up to tonight?” Yuuri asks after offering Victor a reassuring smile.

“We’re going shopping!” Phichit announces from his place on the couch where he appears to be running some sort of algorithm on his laptop, “I’m still not sold on this commercial idea, but if Victor is sticking around for the time being he’s going to need some twenty-first century threads to help him blend in.”

“Yes, Phichit has promised to make a modern man out of me,” Victor says, allowing Yuuri to pass into the living room, “We’ll be going to survey the wares at a mercantile known as ‘H and Em’.”

“You’re in good hands,” Yuuri assures him, “Phichit has a lot more fashion sense than I do.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t know,” Victor says, helping Yuuri into his light jacket, “Though I am not thinking there could be anything objectionable about your manner of dress. You look quite handsome tonight.”

Yuuri ignores Phichit’s raised eyebrows in favor of checking his phone, where a new notification is waiting.

“My Uber is two minutes away,” he says, “I should get going.”

Victor sees him to the door, his features still drawn with a trace of worry, but he offers Yuuri a smile.  

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, “I hope you have a pleasant evening.”

“Goodnight, Victor,” Yuuri replies, warm under his collar, “Have fun with Phichit, yeah?”

“I will do my best,” Victor promises, “Enjoy your dinner with Mr. Giacometti.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, nerves bubbling up, “I just hope he’ll hear me out.”

“He will appreciate your integrity,” Victor says confidently, “Or he will reveal he is not a man of integrity himself. Besides, I will be saying an extra Pater Noster on your behalf. Nothing can possibly go awry.”

Yuuri can’t help but smile. “Thanks Victor.”

With a wave goodbye to Phichit and a lingering glance back at Victor Yuuri makes his way to the stairwell. He has four flights to make it down seeing as the elevator is still malfunctioning. All the way, his worries about the _Grand Prix_ safety standards is beating a drumbeat in his thoughts. With all the chaos of Victor’s arrival he had almost forgotten, but with Victor’s name and face now tied to the brand, not to mention Yuuri’s own professional reputation, the inconsistent crash testing reports are all he can think about.

~

 _L’Artusi_ is bustling in that quiet, slightly oppressive way that high end dinner spots tend to operate. The hostess greets Christophe by name after a server takes both of their jackets. Apparently he’s quite the regular here, which he shares with Yuuri as he guides him across the dining room to their candle lit table. Yuuri is more concerned with not bumping into any of the delicate furniture than is he with Christophe’s various Manhattan connections.

As soon as they’re seated Christophe orders a bottle of wine for the table, thankfully without asking Yuuri’s opinion on his selection. With Christophe’s approval of the vintage the waiter pours them both a glass.

“I admit, when you brought him in in that Anna Karenina ensemble I was worried for you, _cher.”_

Yuuri is looking around the restaurant and realizing that most of the tables around him seem to be people on dates. It takes him a few seconds to catch up to Christophe’s words.

“Oh, well—”

“But, like I said, you know what women _and_ men want,” Christophe continues, chuckling, “I think Anderson might have finally had his sexual awakening, watching your duke.”

Yuuri laughs weakly. “Well, it was just, you know, a gut feeling,” he says.

“You have to trust those instincts,” Christophe says with a sage nod as he lifts his wine glass, “Your Victor is going to be bigger than Mr. Opportunity.  That’s something worth toasting to.”

“Cheers,” Yuuri agrees, clinking his delicate glass against Christophe’s and hoping it doesn’t break.

“You wouldn’t happen to be sleeping with him, would you?” Christophe asks while Yuuri is in the middle of his first sip. He sputters, and barely avoids choking on the no doubt very expensive wine.

“What? — oh, no,” Yuuri replies, cheeks hot, “No, I’m not.”

“Oh good,” Christophe says lightly, flipping open his menu, “Tell me, Yuuri, do you like scallops? They make a delicious scallop here.”

~

Given some of the outlandish fashions Victor has seen on the streets of twenty-first century New York, he has to admit that he finds the men’s section of H&M to be a little...anticlimactic. The department store itself is something of a marvel, with sleek tile floors and lighting so bright it puts spots in Victor’s eyes, but the actual clothing seems rather muted compared to Victor’s wardrobe back in St. Petersburg.

“These selections are all so _plain_ ,” Victor pouts, accepting the armful of _sweaters_ Phichit suggests for him, “Do they not have any brocade?”

“Hm, you don’t see so much brocade in twenty-seventeen,” Phichit says, looking through a rack of canvas trousers, also only available in plain shades of indigo.

“Men’s fashions have always been so Puritanical in the West,” Victor laments, “I suppose it’s only gotten worse.”

“Hm,” Phichit agrees, “Here, you’re taller than me, so you’ll probably be a thirty-thirty-two. We’ll just get you a couple of sizes to try on.”

Phichit places several pairs of trousers in Victor’s arms and herds him over to a row of vestibules blocked from view by a series of hanging curtains.

“I’m to change my clothes here in _public_?” Victor asks, scandalized.

“Welcome to the modern age, Vic,” Phichit says, scooting Victor into one of the little alcoves and sliding the curtain shut, “Show me the stuff you think fits and we’ll pick from that.”

By far the most difficult part of the entire “changing” process is getting out of his own clothes. It’s not that Victor lack opposable thumbs, but he has lived with a valet to help him dress since he left boarding school. It turns out he has a surprising number of buttons and ties associated with his garb, particularly the formal suit he is still wearing from his slip through time after the ball. By comparison, the modern clothes Phichit suggested seem manageable. People in this day and age must have learned to function without servants.   

Once he’s down to only his drawers and his icon locket Victor turns to the pile of garments he was assigned to “try on.” It turns out modern fashion is not without its challenges. Victor spends some moments puzzling over the strange metal closure on the trousers, which Phichit eventually has to explain through the curtain is called a _zipper_. In Victor’s opinion it seems more like a medieval torture device than a sensible replacement for buttons, all those teeth so close to one’s masculine equipment. Other than the zipper, trousers have luckily not changed too radically in their construction since Victor’s own time, and after some trial and error he finds a pair of “jeans” which are an acceptable fit.

The shirts Phichit chose for him are another matter. How are these clothes feeling so tight and so loose at the same time? Victor feels practically naked with only a thin knit clinging like a second skin, but it has none of the tailoring structure of the shirts he’s accustomed to.

“Phichit are you certain I am not meant to be wearing a waistcoat with this...what did you call it? A tortoise-neck?” Victor asks through the door of the dressing room.

“ _Turtle_ neck,” Phichit corrects him, “And no, I promise, in the twenty-first century we don’t have to wear so many layers. Just the sweater is fine.”

“The collar makes me look like I am in the Orthodox seminary, I think,” Victor says, fingering the volume of fabric around his throat. He desperately misses his valet in this moment. Georgi would be able to help him puzzle out the bizarre simplicity of this futuristic clothing.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Phichit assures him, “Come on out if you’re decent.”

“I am not sure that I am,” Victor mutters, but nevertheless he steps out of the changing room in jeans and the black turtleneck.  

“How do I look?” Victor asks, clasping his hands awkwardly behind his back. How did one stand in so little clothing? Surely he wasn’t expected to rest his hands in his _pockets_ like a common tradesman.

“Oh my _god,”_ Phichit declares, “Yuuri is going to swoon.”

“Is he?” Victor asks, looking down at his plain dress.

“Hell yeah,” Phichit says, turning Victor so he can see himself in the long full length mirror besides the dressing room, “Like, not that your duke get up doesn’t look sharp, but you’ve got _shoulders_ , dude.”

“And that is something Yuuri would find attractive?” Victor inquires, considering this outfit in a new light. He supposes the dark color is rather striking against his complexion. And the thin material...Victor reconsiders the moments today in which Yuuri touched his arm in conversation, or steadied him on the underground train. Mother in heaven, such contact would be practically _erotic_ in his current wardrobe.

“You’ve got plenty of _something_ Yuuri would find attractive,” Phichit says, expression gleeful, “But yes, definitely the shoulders.”

Victor hums, turning to consider the shape of his backside as well.

“Phichit, my friend,” he says, “I believe I could grow accustomed to the modern style.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the business dinner: part 2

“And you can see the gables are all original, nineteenth century,” Christophe continues, flipping to yet another photo on his phone of the Swiss townhouse he’s apparently just put a down payment on.

“Oh, um, yes, they’re...beautiful,” Yuuri says, running out of adjectives to describe what looks like a relatively plain house in between bites of gummy risotto, “So is this just for vacations, or are you moving?”

“Mm, once the  _ Grand Prix _ makes its sales quotas I’ll be promoted, no doubt. They’ll expect me to spend half the year in Geneva,” Christophe says wistfully, “You’ll have to come and see me. I’ll need to have some in person contact with my new second in command here in New York.”

Yuuri has been enduring Chris’ pseudo romantic overtures for so long that he almost doesn’t catch his bosses declaration. 

“Wait, second in command?” Yuuri repeats, “Chris, what exactly are you saying?”

“I’m saying you should come visit. Do you like Switzerland?” Christophe asks, “I know some lovely chalets. Very intimate. Great skiing. We could go.” 

Yuuri tries to keep on track after a night of confusing conversation. He can’t let Chris hint at promotions until Yuuri has brought his safety concerns to his attention.

“Uh, I can’t say I’ve ever been to Europe,” Yuuri says, “But, uh, what was that other part? The second in command thing?”

“How about catching an opera?” Christophe asks instead, “Next Saturday?  _ La Boheme _ is at the Met.”

Yuuri can feel a tension headache brewing.

~

“...so, either you’ve disappeared from your own time entirely, which could have consequences, or by bringing you to the future we’ve created a second timeline altogether where you essentially exist in two places at once,” Phichit explains, gesturing animatedly with his pint glass, “But here’s the crazy thing: both of those things could be happening at the same time!”

“Eh, I am not sure I am fully following you,” Victor confesses to his slightly inebriated friend, “Though it is fascinating.”

“I’ve got to get Yuuri to explain it better to you,” Phichit says, waving off Victor’s apologies, “The overlapping multi-verse was really his area of expertise.”

They’re in a pub somewhere in Lower Manhattan with an oak bartop and stained glass windows. The lights are dark and the bar is crowded. If it weren’t for the electric lights and the  _ Televisions _ broadcasting some kind of American sporting event over their heads Victor would almost feel at home. They’d stopped off after their successful shopping venture on Phichit’s insistence that Victor ought to be “seen” in his new clothes. Victor realizes how much constant staring he’d been the object of in his dinner jacket now that he blends in properly. Still, he must be slightly conspicuous, as different women keep trying to hand him cocktail napkins inscribed with some kind of numeral code. Victor trusts Phichit’s handling of the situation when he informs the ladies that Victor “doesn’t play for their team,” which appears to dissuade further conversation. It must all be related to the sporting events on the monitors.

“It seems a shame that Yuuri did not complete his studies,” Victor comments, back in the present moment, “Though he seems to enjoy his current trade well enough.”

“Hm, advertising is fine,” Phichit says, “And it pays well, don’t get me wrong. But Yuuri was really something special in physics. Plus, time travel just got a lot less theoretical, and you’re the proof! Imagine the work Yuuri could do now that we know our theories have a solid basis in reality!”

Phichit finishes his passionate speech and looks down to find his glass is empty.  

“Hey, we should get another round,” he says, waving for the bartender, but Victor stays his hand. 

“I think you are feeling the alcohol a bit already,” Victor says, laughing, “Besides, we should return to your apartment. I’m sure Yuuri is home by now.”

“I doubt it,” Phichit shrugs.

Victor frowns. “It’s nearly midnight.”

“Yeah well, he’s out with ‘Chris’ so who knows.”

Victor’s displeasure grows more severe, and Phichit laughs.

“Wow, your face just got  _ really _ Russian.”

“My face is always ‘really Russian’,” Victor replies, imitating Phichit’s American accent, which makes him laugh again.

“No, no I just mean the grumpy look when I talk about Yuuri’s boss. It’s almost like...” Phichit trails off as he realizes gleefully: “You  _ like  _ him.”

“Christophe Giacometti?” Victor asks with distaste, “Certainly not.”

“No, no, you like  _ Yuuri _ ,” Phichit repeats, slapping Victor on the arm in his excitement, “Like,  _ like  _ like him.”

“Oh, well, yes,” Victor replies, guessing Phichit’s meaning mostly from context rather than a specific understanding of his English usage, “I thought I was being very transparent on that front.” 

Phichit shakes his head tipsily. “See, you can never be  _ too _ transparent with Yuuri,” he explains, “When it comes to being in denial he’s a world champ. That’s why -hic- why he’s stuck out on a date with his sleazy boss right now.”

Victor stares down into the dregs of his ale morosely. 

“I knew that man was making advances,” he mutters.

“Uh, yeah,” Phichit says, “You, me, and everybody else in the twenty-first century knew that.”

“Then he’s a scoundrel,” Victor declares, ire stirring in his breast.

Phichit stares at him, a distinctly mischievous gleam in his eye. 

“I have a terrible idea,” he announces. 

Victor raises a hand to hail the barkeep. 

“I think we’re going to need that extra drink after all.”

They depart the bar a few minutes later, fueled by a shot of Russian vodka and the misguided goal of defending Yuuri Katsuki’s honor against unwanted advances.

What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 3, coming soon! Don't forget to share and subscribe if you're enjoying this fic so far! Thanks for all the amazing comments.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the business dinner: part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who have seen Kate and Leopold, you probably have an idea of the scene that's coming. For those who haven't, an advance apology for those like myself who suffer from second hand embarrassment.

“Chris, I think m-maybe we’ve had a misunderstanding,” Yuuri says, fending off Christophe’s attempt to feed him a bite of dessert off his fork, “Ah--no t-thank you. When you asked me to dinner tonight, I thought that you wanted to discuss—”

“The new Grand Prix model,” Christophe finishes for him, setting down his fork, “And your future with the company.” 

“Right! I mean, yes,” Yuuri says, “And um, dinner is winding down, but we haven’t actually  _ talked _ about any of that yet, which is very important to me, because as you know I care about the company’s reputation—”

“ _Mon_ _cher,_ I’ve never seen you this flustered,” Christophe says, a peculiar smile playing at his lips, “I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

“Um.” 

How did night possibly go so wrong? Sara was never going to let Yuuri hear the end of it when she finds out she was right about Christophe’s intentions. 

“Listen, Chris, I like you, uh, I mean—” Yuuri can feel the panic clawing its way up the back of his throat and but he swallows it down as best he can, “I have a lot of  _ professional  _ respect for you, which is why when this issue came to my attention I was so eager to discuss it with you—”

Christophe is not helping Yuuri  _ at all _ with his amused expression and his persistent eye contact and this is Yuuri’s  _ boss _ and there’s already no non-ugly way for this to end but all Yuuri wants is to make sure they don’t get sued to high heaven— 

“I hope that you won’t be upset by my bringing this up,” Yuuri soldiers on, “Because it isn’t really my area, but since I-I’ve always felt we had a good—you know— a strong  _ working _ relationship—”

“And what  _ is  _ our working relationship, Yuuri?” Christophe asks, amused, “Because I have a few ideas.”

“Chris, I swear to god—”

“Yuuri!”

What might have become an ill-advised rant is cut off by the unexpected call of Yuuri’s roommate across the restaurant. 

“What the—” sure enough, when Yuuri turns around, an animated Phichit is waving at him past a harried looking hostess, with Victor only a few steps behind.

“Yuuri!” Phichit calls again, “It’s us! Tell them we’re with you!”

“Chris, I’m so sorry, that’s my roommate,” Yuuri explains, “I have no idea why he didn’t just text me, but there must be something wrong or he would never show up like this.”

“Then by all means, let’s hear what the emergency is.” Christophe waves at the hostess, who allows Phichit and Victor into the restaurant proper.

“Yuuri, hi!” Phichit greets him when they reach the table, “What are the odds of running into you here. And you must be Mr. Giacometti, Yuuri’s  _ boss _ . I’m Phichit!” 

Yuuri is unable to rescue Christophe from Phichit’s introductions because he is suddenly occupied by Victor, bowing low and pulling Yuuri’s hand to his lips. 

“Victor, what on earth are you doing here?” Yuuri asks, eyes taking in Victor’s fitted sweater and stylish peacoat faster than his brain can process. 

“Fear no more, Yuuri,” Victor whispers conspiratorially, “We are here to rescue you.”

“ _ What _ ?” Yuuri whispers back, horrified, “No-Victor, you don’t understand—”

“Ah, Mr. Duke, it  _ is  _ you,” Christophe intejects, “My apologies, I didn’t recognize you out of costume, but I should have guessed it was you by your manners.”

“Mr. Giacometti, a pleasure,” Victor replies, offering Christophe a not-so-friendly handshake, “As always.”

“Chris, I really apologize,” Yuuri stammers, watching the two men practically arm wrestle in front of him in horror, “This is all a misunderstanding, my friends are  _ just leaving _ —”

“No, no,” Christophe insists, a stiff smile on his face, “After all, we’ll all be working together, won’t we? You should join us for a drink.”

“That’s kind of you Chris, but really they  _ should be going— _ ”

“We’d love to!” 

What follows is probably the most excruciating conversation of Yuuri’s life. 

“Do you like opera, Victor?” Christophe asks, since apparently they’re all on a first name basis now. They've pulled up extra chairs to a table definitely intended for two, so there are plenty of knees knocking. 

“Opera?” Victor repeats, “I can’t say I frequent the theatre, but I’ve been privileged to enjoy a few private performances. And you?” 

“Yes, it’s my favorite way to spend a Saturday evening,” Christophe says, the ball firmly back in his court, “The high arts, you know. It’s what keeps me alive.”

“I’m sure,” Victor replies, “Do you have a favorite?”

“Boheme.  _ La Boheme _ .” 

“Oh, they’ve made an opera of that?” Victor says, an actual smile on his face, “How wonderful. I did enjoy the novel.”

“I must have seen it a dozen times,” Christophe says, thankfully ignoring Victor’s moment of anachronism, “It helps me keep my Italian sharp.”

“You speak Italian?” Victor notes, barely keeping the skepticism from his expression. 

“French, Italian, a little German,” Christophe says, parrying Victor’s attempt at a stab. 

“Wow, Chris, I didn’t know you spoke German,” Yuuri says, trying to soothe the tension. 

“All part and parcel of being Swiss,” Christophe says with a shrug, “What about you, Victor? You strike me as a bit of a polyglot.”

“Hardly,” Victor demurs without a shred of modesty, “Just Russian.”

“Ah, well—”

“Some Japanese,” Victor continues, “And the classics, of course. Latin, Greek, Hebrew. Just the things boys learn in school, you understand.”

“Of course,” Christophe replies, taking a sour sip of his after dinner scotch. 

“But less about me,” Victor continues, “Tell me more about  _ La Boheme _ , since I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing it. What is your favorite scene?” 

“My favorite scene?” Christophe repeats, eyes widening, “Well...how can you top the first aria?”

“Hm, a love duet, I imagine,” Victor guesses. 

“Yes, Andre sings to Mimi, never a dry eye in the house.” 

“Andre, hm?” For some reason Victor seems to find Christophe’s response amusing.

“Wow, you know, this was great, but it’s really getting late,” Yuuri attempts another intervention, “Chris, we’ve got such a busy schedule tomorrow, why don’t we—”

“You know, I invited Yuuri to the Met, next week. He’s never been,” Christophe continues, “Patrone is singing Andre, yet he turned me down. Can you explain that, Victor?” 

“Well, I imagine  _ Boheme  _ is one of man’s great achievements and should not be missed,” Victor says amiably, “Perhaps Mr. Katsuki resists on moral grounds.”

“Oh?” Christophe says, a dangerous gleam in his green eyes, “And what might those be?”

“Really, we should get the check—”

Yuuri can’t look at the exchange about to happen, so he takes that moment to glare daggers at Phichit instead. Yuuri’s roommate appears to have finally sobered up and by his expression has just realized the consequences of his actions too late to be of  _ any help whatsoever. _

“Some  _ might _ feel,” Victor replies, voice cold as the Russian winter, “That attempting to date a man in one’s own employ could be seen as a serpentine effort to take advantage of him, given that the health of his career depends on your good will.”

Yuuri has to cover his face with his hands and count for several breaths. Tragically when he manages to open his eyes he finds he is still trapped at this hellish dinner table, and Christophe is still frozen in the face of Victor’s insult. 

“ _ Victor _ ,” Yuuri manages to squeak which seems to set the room in motion again.

“What a  _ charming _ friend you have, Yuuri,” Christophe says, “Your ‘duke’ thinks I’m a serpent _. _ ”

“N-no, Chris, really,” Yuuri stammers, “Victor doesn’t think that, I swear.”

“Yuuri is right,” Victor agrees, “‘Serpent’ is too grand a term. You are simply a braggart, and a cad, who knows less about opera than I, if such a thing is possible.”

Victor rises from the table, and Phichit makes to follow him. Yuuri can only remain frozen in his seat.  

“And by the way,” Victor adds, buttoning his coat, “There is no ‘Andre’ in  _ Boheme _ . It’s Rudolfo.” 

With that, Victor turns on his heel and leaves, Phichit close behind, leaving Yuuri behind with a shell shocked Christophe. 

Yuuri can’t even look at his boss. 

“E-excuse me, Chris, I’m sorry.”

Yuuri finds his feet and escapes the table, avoiding the stairs of the few remaining patrons still in the dining room. He manages to make it to the men’s room before the tears come. It’s the closest thing to a panic attack Yuuri has had in months.

When he finally emerges Yuuri finds Christophe gone and the bill paid. He accepts his jacket from the pitying host and makes his way to the R train.

Despite his best efforts Yuuri knows his eyes are puffy and swollen from crying when he finally returns to the apartment. Phichit meets him at the door, looking appropriately contrite.

“Don’t be mad at Victor, Yuuri,” he pleads as Yuuri comes in and kicks off his shoes by the door, “It was my fault, I encouraged him, and you know he doesn’t understand that things are different—”

“I’m not mad, Phi,” Yuuri lies, “I’m tired. It’s been a long night.”

More difficult to evade than Phichit is Victor, who is waiting by Yuuri’s bedroom door. 

“Yuuri,” Victor begins, posture stiff and formal, “I am realizing I may have overstepped my bounds—”

Yuuri sighs. 

“Please, Victor, I just want to go to bed.”

Too little too late, Victor manages to hold his tongue and he lets Yuuri pass. Yuuri pauses in his bedroom doorway, reaching out to finger the cuff of Victor’s new sweater. 

“This looks good,” Yuuri murmurs. Victor offers him a tentative smile. 

“Thank you,” he replies, “Can we...can we speak further tomorrow?”

Tomorrow. The thought brings Yuuri nothing but fatigue.

“Sure,” he says, “Goodnight.”

“Rest well.”

Yuuri finally closes his bedroom door and sinks down to the carpet. The moment he hits the floor Vicchan trots over from his little bed in the corner to sniff Yuuri in concern. The toy poodle whines when Yuuri can only pet him morosely. 

“I know, buddy,” Yuuri murmurs, ruffling Vicchan’s fluffy curls, “They were only trying to help.”

He can hear Victor and Phichit speaking in soft murmurs in the living room, but he doesn’t bother to listen in. Instead, Yuuri puts on his softest pajamas and curls up in bed with his poodle, dreading the day of work he’s going to have tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for reading! Next up: Yuuri is owed several apologies. Some of those apologies are more involved than others.


	10. Chapter 10

Victor does not find rest easy that night.  

Finding himself well sobered he sits vigil long after Yuuri and Phichit have retired, staring down at his icons in remorseful contemplation.

“Kill the sin of pride in me, Holy Mother,” he entreats, quiet not to disturb those sleeping, “Grant Yuuri a compassionate state that he might forgive my idiocy.”

The Virgin stares back at him, motherly reproach in her expression. Even the infant Christ appears to hold Victor only in contempt, miniature as his features may be. Victor lays his head back against the sofa cushions, pressing the locket to his heart with a deep sigh. He’s a stranger in a strange land, torn away from all he’s ever known to a bizarre and wonderful future for who knows how long. It’s been frightening, and overwhelming, and marvelous is equal measure, and in the center of it all is Yuuri. Handsome, gentle, intelligent Yuuri, making Victor’s heart race for the first time in years and holding him steady on underground trains. Even hours ago Victor thought his heart might leap from his chest when Yuuri touched his sleeve and complimented his new clothes. The moment was spoiled, of course, by the tear tracks still staining Yuuri’s cheeks, the fault of which fell squarely on Victor’s foolishness.

Victor sighs again, feeling quite the Gothic heroine. 

“I must make it right,” he says aloud, still clutching his icons in a plea for divine inspiration, “But how?”

Clearly displays of bravado have proven distasteful to Yuuri’s sensibilities, and Victor has no doubt further public spectacle would garner the same result. No, forgiveness from Yuuri will require a significant gesture, but one of sincerity. Victor spends some moments thinking on this. If he were at home in his own time, how would he heal a rift between himself and a dear friend? Perhaps things have not changed so radically as he might fear. Phichit could advise him further, but for the moment Victor arrives as a serviceable idea.

“The plan is coming together,” Victor declares quietly, kissing his image of Theotokos, “Thank you for your wisdom, Blessed Mother.” 

Quickly Victor gathers his supplies. Stacked in the belly of a strange device Victor couldn’t begin to guess the function of he finds paper. It’s incredibly thin, and pure white in color. Victor hopes it isn’t terribly expensive. A writing implement is a simpler matter, once Victor locates a ceramic drinking vessel on an end table full of what must be the contemporary replacement for the fountain pen. A few experiments to determine the correct way to activate the flow of ink (clicking a secret mechanism on one end!) and Victor is ready to write a letter which will set his plans into motion.

He hesitates for some time over the correct words to show Yuuri the truth of his heart, but in the end Victor writes briefly and from his conscience.  When he’s finished Victor seals the letter and slips it into Yuuri’s attache where it rests by the front door. 

Satisfied for now, Victor kneels by the sofa to say his evening prayers before tucking his long legs up on the piece of furniture as best he can and going to sleep.  

When he wakes, morning light streams through the living room window, and Victor is warm. Tucked in around him is a plush blue blanket Victor recognizes from the bed in Yuuri’s room. 

Victor clutches the locket safe under his shirt, sending up a prayer of thanks. 

“Redemption is not out of our reach yet,” He murmurs, before snuggling into the coverlet for a few more minutes rest. The day ahead will be a busy one, as Victor has much to prepare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, sorry for the short chapter! I just didn't want to leave things hanging too badly, as I likely won't have as much time to write for a day or two because of Thanksgiving. Cute/steamy things still to come in the not so distant future! Thanks as always for the comments. They've been so encouraging!


	11. Chapter 11

“And finally moving on to the Grand Prix. Leo, would you like to start with an update on the print content?”

“Thanks Chris. We’ve made good progress on the planned magazine campaign. We’ve finalized our contract with GQ and we’re having our final meeting with Vogue on Tuesday…”

This is probably the worst possible day for one of these meetings. Yuuri couldn’t get in to see Christophe this morning and now he’s been trapped in a boardroom with him and all the other project directors for the last forty minutes. 

The tension is...noticeable. Hopefully not to anyone but Yuuri, though Sara keeps giving him curious looks across the table. It’s not that Chris seems angry with Yuuri so much as he’s doing his best to ignore him entirely. Yuuri is so used to a high baseline of flirtatious energy from his boss that the sudden about face feels decidedly frosty. 

Yuuri sneaks a glance at Christophe in time to see his boss lean back so his secretary can whisper something in his ear. Christophe listens, then nods, and flashes the young man what Yuuri now recognizes as his trademark seductive grin. Judging by the secretary’s (what was his name? Masumi?) blush, it’s much more effective on him than it ever was on Yuuri. 

Yuuri breathes a strange sigh of relief. At least Christophe won’t have too many issues moving on. That’s one headache that will hopefully fix itself.  

Speaking of headaches...

Victor had looked so cute this morning, asleep still in his jeans with a throw pillow clutched to his chest and his silver hair a mess. Yuuri had stared at the sleeping duke for an embarrassingly long time while making his morning coffee. Victor could have been any ordinary guy, crashing on a friend’s couch after a night out. He even drooled a little. The sight had made Yuuri smile despite the absolute shit show of the night before and the disaster that was sure to be the day ahead. 

Yuuri had covered Victor up with the extra comforter off the end of his bed before heading out to work and right into this department-wide meeting. They’re working their way through the Grand Prix team; Yuuri will probably need to present in the next few minutes.  He has his notes open on his laptop, but he subtly flicks through his laptop case to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. Sure enough, there was the hard copy of the focus group data he’d wanted to share with Leo to see if they should coordinate on print and TV media. 

When he grabs the sheaf of papers something falls out into the bottom of his briefcase. Yuuri investigates and discovers a letter with his name written on the front in smooth, looping calligraphy. It’s sealed with wax that has a distinct...pina colada aroma? 

Yuuri startles, recognizing the scent of the gross candle Phichit had given him as a gag on his last birthday. It’s been sitting on their kitchen counter in all it’s ugly pineapple shaped glory ever since. Someone melted the wax to seal the letter.

_ Someone _ , Yuuri thinks with fond exasperation, _ as though a handwritten letter could have come from anyone but Victor. _

Across the table, Sara begins her presentation on the  _ Grand Prix  _ social media campaign. As quietly as possible, Yuuri cracks the wax seal on Victor’s letter and begins to read.  

_ My dearest Yuuri, _

_ I behaved as an utter imbecile last night. I was animated in part by drink, and in part by your handsomeness, but mostly by my own foolish pride. For that, I am profoundly sorry, and sorrier still to have been the cause of your distress. There was no need of my intervention on your behalf, as you are an intelligent man of sound character, more than capable of defending your own virtue as you see fit. As a gesture of apology, I hope you will accept the invitation of a private dinner on the rooftop tonight at eight o’clock. _

_ Yours truly, _

_ Victor _

_ Okay,  _ Yuuri thinks, stroking his thumb over the elegant swoop of Victor’s signature,  _ As far as apologies go, that’s a pretty good start. _

“—television?...Yuuri?” 

Yuuri jumps, folding the letter in his lap. He finds most of the table looking at him, including a concerned Christophe.

“Um, sorry?” 

“The television campaign for the  _ Grand Prix _ ?” Christophe repeats, “Care to give us an update?”

“Oh, right. Of course.” Yuuri tucks away Victor’s letter and scrolls through the data he’d carefully prepared last night before his disastrous dinner meeting . 

“Um, as you know, we’ve found our spokesman,” he says to the table, “Our final data from the response room tallied a ninety-six percent favorable rating. Key descriptors included ‘inspiring’ and ‘romantic’ with a number one response of…”

Yuuri swallows, avoiding Christophe’s eye. 

“‘Sexy’,” he concludes, clearing his throat, “Needless to say, Mr. Duke has been signed for the project.”

“Great,” Christophe agrees, a slight crack in his voice, “Well, I think everything is on track. I’ll follow up with you individually as need be.”

With that Chris gets up to leave and Yuuri scrambles to follow. He can’t put this conversation off for even another minute. On his way out of the conference room he’s waylaid by Sara, who looks hungry for gossip. 

“Yuuri, what the hell—”

“Sorry, I’ve got to take care of something,” Yuuri says, shoving his extra papers at Sara’s chest, “Could you throw these on my desk?” 

Sara’s look is skeptical but she accepts Yuuri’s disorganized personal effects. 

“We’re getting a coffee after this,” she declares.  

“Yes, yes, fine,” Yuuri agrees, already jogging after Christophe. He catches up to his boss just as Chris is about to close his office door. 

“Chris, hi,” Yuuri begins awkwardly. Christophe’s expression goes briefly rueful, before he opens his door wide. 

“Yuuri,” he says, “I figured we’d be chatting at some point today.”

“I just, um, well I wanted to apologize again for last night,” Yuuri says, “Victor was--I mean, there was no need for things to play out like they did."

“I appreciate that,” Christophe says after a pause, “But I owe you an apology as well.” 

“Really, there’s no need—”

Christophe sighs. “Yes there is,” he insists, “Your Victor’s point wasn’t easy to hear but it was well made. I have been trying to pursue you. I obviously haven’t been successful.”

Yuuri’s cheeks are hot. “Um—”

“Never fear, Mr. Katsuki,” Christophe assures him, “I have been shown the error of my ways. I apologize, for making you uncomfortable. I hope we can still keep our professional relationship.”

“Thank you, Chris,” Yuuri says after a moment, “I’m sure that we can.” 

“That’s good,” Christophe continues, inviting Yuuri properly into his office, “Because I still fully intend on promoting you to assistant director after we finish the  _ Grand Prix _ project.”

Ah. There’s problem number two. Which will  _ not  _ solve itself.  

“Chris, before we discuss any promotions,” Yuuri says, closing Christophe’s door behind him, “Or honestly, before the  _ Grand Prix  _ project moves forward at all, there’s something I need to talk to you about.” 

Christophe’s expression sobers. He leans against his desk, indicating an open chair. 

“Alright then,” he replies, “I’m listening.”

_ Finally _ , Yuuri tells Christophe all of his concerns about the  _ Grand Prix  _ safety data. He describes his initial suspicions, showing his boss the reports he examines, then his own math which throws the official tests way beyond the responsible margin of error. 

“It could be as simple as a typing error,” Yuuri says in the end, “But I just don’t see how it’s possible that the  _ Grand Prix  _ scored as high as it did against our competitors. And since that’s a central part of our advertising strategy—”

“Yuuri,” Christophe interrupts him, “I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. You took a risk in coming to me and I respect that.” 

Yuuri has a sinking feeling. “But?” 

“But I can’t walk up the board of directors and order them to redo all their crash testing,” Christophe continues, “We aren’t engineers, Yuuri. We don’t design the  _ Grand Prix _ , we just advertise it.” 

“I  _ am _ an engineer, though,” Yuuri says, “I know it’s not my job—”

“No, your job is to sell cars,” Christophe concludes for him, “And you’re very good at it. You’ve got a real future with this company, but that means us doing our job and R&D doing theirs. Trust me, they have plenty of government regulations keeping them in line.”

Yuuri frowns. “So you won’t even take it to the directors?”

“I’ll tell you what they would tell me,” Chris says with a shrug, “We can’t afford it. The company doesn’t have the money and they don’t have the time. We have to get the  _ Grand Prix  _ on the sale floor in November, and we have to start advertising for it at the end of the month. Thousands of employees are counting on the corporation staying in the black.”

Yuuri wants to argue further, but an alarm buzzes on Christophe’s phone.

“Ah, sorry, my next meeting.” 

Chris unsubtly opens his office door, waiting for Yuuri to leave. 

“You’re thinking of the company. I see that,” Christophe says as Yuuri is on his way out, “That’s why I know you’ll be great for this job. Someday when you’re standing in my shoes you’ll understand these decisions, Yuuri.”

Yuuri only nods, and makes his way back to his own cubicle, stomach twisting uncomfortably. 

Being in Christophe's shoes is the last thing he wants right now. 


	12. Chapter 12

Victor is in desperate need of advice. He’d enjoyed a successful interaction with the neighborhood florist, and placing his order for dinner with the local Russian cafe had been a pleasure. However, back at the apartment Victor has hit his first real snag in his plans.  

With some trepidation, Victor sits down in front of Phichit’s... _ computer. _ It’s a mysterious piece of technology which Victor gathers runs on electricity, as it is plugged into the wall. This is a “desk-top,” which seems self-explanatory, as it does reside on a table surface. Phichit is somewhere at his university it possession of his own “lap-top,” a more portable version of the device. Since they each have their own computer in their respective locations, they can use them to communicate, like Bell’s talking telegraph. 

It seems simple enough, and Phichit left him some perfectly clear instructions. With Vicchan curled at his feet to offer moral support, Victor is certain he can achieve his goal.

A self-adhesive note sits cheerfully attached to the glass interface which stares Victor down intimidatingly. Victor double checks the clock on the kitchen stove, ensuring that it  _ is  _ indeed a time Phichit will be available for conversation between his academic obligations, before carefully reading the written instructions on the note his friend had penned for him that morning. 

_ Step 1: Wiggle the mouse _

The “mouse”? Oh, right, Victor remembers. He takes hold of the small, palm-sized control for the computer, which doesn’t at all resemble a small mammal, and gives it a “wiggle”. Just as Phichit had demonstrated this morning, the glass panel on the front of the computer lights up. The image is exactly the one Phichit had opened for him this morning, a program known as  _ Facetime _ for reasons unclear. Glowing before his eyes is a list of small circular pictures, each labeled with a name, or a small line of text. 

“Excellent,” Victor hums to himself, examining the next step.

_ Step 2: Find phichit-chu _

Victor only has to look at the list briefly. There, under “Favorite Friends” is “phichit-chu.” Beside the moniker is a little circle featuring Phichit offering his fingers held up in the shape of an English letter V.

“How appropriate,” Victor murmurs, thinking warmly of his new friend.  

_ Step 3: Use the mouse to click “video call” symbol _

Beside his text Phichit has made a simple drawing that looks a bit like a nineteenth century camera, if Victor uses his imagination. It’s not difficult to spot the correct icon from the short list besides Phichit’s picture. Carefully, Victor moves the “mouse” so that the corresponding arrow on the interface rests on top of the video call symbol and presses his index finger down until he feels a distinct “click.” Immediately, a new image pops up, along with a bubbling chime and scrolling text indicating that Victor is “calling.”

Victor feels quite accomplished at the moment. Here he is, adapting to the future!

Victor moment of self-congratulations is interrupted by a  _ ping!  _ And then the image on the screen is suddenly Phichit!

“Victor? Hi, Victor! I see you got the computer working.”

Victor can see Phichit from the shoulders up. Partially visible behind him is a series of white boards covered in equations and diagrams scribbled in multi-colored ink. Phichit must be in his laboratory.

“Phichit, hello!” Victor replies in a loud voice, “Can you hear me?”

“You can just talk normally, Vic,” Phichit replies, laughing, “Facetime is pretty sound sensitive. Is the video feed coming through?”

“Yes! Yes, I see you. Are you seeing me as well?” Victor asks in a more natural tone, then realizing, “Ah, I understand.  _ Face-time _ . I am seeing your face!”

“Haha, yeah, you got it,” Phichit says, “Everything okay?”

“Yes, yes. All is well with Vicchan and myself,” Victor assures him, Vicchan offering a  _ yip _ from his place on the floor, “I just had a question. Is this an acceptable time?”

“Sure thing, man. What’s up?” 

“It’s these electric...er, fairy lights, I think you called them?” Victor says, moving to indicate the tangled pile of electric cable and tiny bulbs on the floor before he realizes Phichit probably can’t see them, “Anyway, I was attempting to install them on the roof, but I cannot find the electrical ‘outlet’ you described within reach of the cord.” 

“Oh, right! Sorry, I forgot,” Phichit explains, image flickering slightly as he gestures and speaks, “The outlet is inside the stairwell. The cord will reach, but you’ll need an extension cord.”

“An extension cord?” Victor repeats, “I am liking the name of that, if it does what I think it does. Easy to guess.”

“Haha, yeah, it  _ extends _ cords,” Phichit confirms, laughing again, “We’ve got one. I think if you look under the kitchen sink it’s still there.”

“Does it look like this?” Victor asks, holding up one end of the fairy lights. 

“Similar,” Phichit says, “It’s bright orange though. It should be easy to spot. Look now, and I can tell you if it’s the right thing.”

“Alright, just one moment.”

Victor rises from the desk, a curious Vicchan on his heels. Sure enough, when Victor opens the cabinet door beneath the faucet in the kitchen he spots the end of an orange, rubber coated cord with the distinct brass prongs sticking out.

“Phichit, I have it!” Victor calls, tugging out the long, tangled cord and carrying the whole mess back to the living room. 

“Awesome,” Phichit says, offering Victor a thumbs up, “Is everything else going smoothly?”

“Yes, I have food and flowers, all I need to do is decorate.” Victor retakes his seat at the desk. “How are things at the laboratory?” 

Phichit’s usual smile shrinks slightly. 

“Things are...they’re good,” Phichit replies, “Uh, you know, time is complicated. I’m trying to pinpoint the exact effects of you being here in the present on the rest of the timestream and it’s a little—”

Someone calls Phichit’s name from out of view, and he turns to respond with a “just a second!” before smiling at Victor apologetically.

“Sorry, Vic, I’ve got a student who needs to meet,” he says, “But don’t worry, okay? I’ll make sure the time-space continuum doesn’t collapse, and you...just make sure Yuuri has a great time tonight.”

“I’ll do my best,” Victor promises, a little concerned by Phichit’s tone “As long as you’re sure everything is alright.” 

“Everything is...well, I’m gonna figure that out.” 

Again, Phichit’s expression drops into uncertainty, then brightens again.

“Anyways have fun on your date. All you can do for now is live in the present, yeah?” 

Victor nods. “Sage words, my friend. Signing off.” 

Trusting his instincts, Victor clicks on the large red button visible in the corner of Phichit’s image. As he’d hoped, Phichit disappears, replaced with a blinking text declaring “call ended.”

Victor purses his lips, looking down at Yuuri’s toy poodle. 

“Vicchan,” he decides, “We can worry about the time-continuum after we woo Yuuri.”

“Yip,” Vicchan agrees.  

Leaving his canine namesake to safeguard the apartment, Victor gathers up all his lights and cords and makes his way up the two flights of stairs towards the roof. He finds the outlet inside the landing easily with Phichit’s instructions. Before he goes through the painstaking process of hanging the decorations he decides to try plugging them in. Despite all the marvels he has witnessed in the future Victor is having a difficult time wrapping his head around the idea of Edison’s bulb produced in miniature. He kneels, careful not to dirty the knees of his new jeans, and inserts the metal pronged end of the lights into the outlet. 

Suddenly the dingy stairwell is filled with brilliant, sparkling light. Victor is so startled he falls right on his back side, the string of lights falling into his lap in a glittering tangle, like a bramble full of stars. Victor can’t contain a sigh at the beautiful sight, his hand resting on his heart over his icons.  

What a time to be alive.

~

“Okay, so this is a level of workplace drama that is out of my league,” Sara admits once Yuuri has (in complete confidence) shared the entire Christophe saga over a pair of lattes at the corner Starbucks. 

“You’re telling me,” Yuuri says, leaning back in his cafe stool.

“However,” Sara continues, “I think we can agree there’s a silver lining to this whole situation.”

With a flourish, Sara pulls Victor’s letter out of her purse.

“You’ve got a date with the duke!”

“ _ Sara _ .” Yuuri is scandalized. “Where did you get that?”

“You handed it to me, remember?” Sara reminds him, “It was open. I  _ accidentally  _ read it, and now I  _ need  _ to know details. Are you a thing?”

“What, no!” Yuuri insists, “I mean--I don’t know. The whole situation is complicated. And Victor just...you know, Chris handled everything pretty well, considering, but Victor really could have put me in hot water. I’m still not sure how I feel about that.”

“Oh come on, Yuuri, this is the cutest apology I’ve ever seen. All old fashioned and everything!” Sara gushes, “If you like him you should give it a chance.”

“Um, well—”

“Assuming he’s gay, I mean.” 

Yuuri has to think on that one. “I’m not exactly sure if Victor would call himself gay,” he admits, musing on the nature of Victorian identity politics, “But he would definitely agree that he’s not straight.”

“Then there’s no problem,” Sara concludes, “It’s up to you, Yuuri, but I think it would be a big mistake to miss this dinner.” 

Yuuri looks up from his spicy chai with a frown.

“I never said I wasn’t going,” he says.

Sara gives a very quiet scream. 

“I knew it! Oh my god, you have to tell me what you’re going to wear.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, but he hides a small smile in the foam of his chai.  

He has a dinner date with Victor Nikiforov tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh thanks for reading! It's always a joy to get your kudos and comments. Remember to subscribe if you want to keep getting updates! Next up: An actual dinner date


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting off some important grad school tasks for this, but I had to post this chapter for Yuuri's birthday! All the love to our best boy <333

_ Phichit: Hey, Yuu, just letting you know I’ll be on campus late tonight! Have fun with Victor  _

_ Phichit:... _

_ Phichit: Also wear that dark blue Prada shirt you found at Buffalo exchange. Vic will *explosion emoji* _

Huh. Yuuri drops the camel sweater he had been considering. It’s seven forty-five and he’s gone through most of his closet already, unsatisfied. What do you wear to a rooftop apology dinner/maybe date? What will Victor be wearing? How formal should he go? His thoughts have been going in circles for almost a half hour, so Phichit’s advice has arrived at the right moment. 

Yuuri pushes aside his usual wardrobe of white button down shirts and plain sweaters, revealing the back quarter of his closet reserved for clubbing, halloween, and second-hand designer that Yuuri is too self-conscious to wear to work. Between his rainbow pride hoodie and a craft store batman costume is a silky button down shirt in a deep midnight blue. Yuuri paid an obscene sixty dollars for it after he’d tried it on and Phichit had declared he looked “like a movie star, or-or like a figure skater or something Yuuri, holy shit!”

Yuuri could use a little movie star tonight. He pulls on the shirt and tucks it in, leaving a few buttons open at the collar. The material is soft, with a sheen to it that Yuuri knows shows of his assets. Looking himself over the in the mirror, Yuuri rolls up his sleeves, then reaches for his rarely used pomade to slick his hair back out of his eyes.

There. He looks nice, but casual. It’s not like tonight is a big deal, right?

“What do you think, Vicchan?” Yuuri knees asks his poodle, curled up on the end of the bed with a chew toy, “Do I look alright?”

Vicchan gives Yuuri an approving face licking and an enthusiastic  _ yip _ . 

“Thanks buddy.” Yuuri gives Vicchan a good scratch between the ears. “Wish me luck, okay?”

At two minutes to eight Yuuri makes his way up to the roof. It’s dark, and the stairwell is full of dust and cobwebs. For a moment Yuuri is sure that this is all some kind of big joke, and that he’ll step out onto the roof in his nicest shirt only to find empty tarmac and cigarette butts.

Then he hears music.  

It’s soft, something classical. Strauss? Yuuri smiles. Victor must have found the old CDs he used to keep for late night study sessions. 

Yuuri climbs the few remaining stairs to find the door cracked. A twinkle of light peeks through. With a deep breath, Yuuri pushes the door open and steps out onto the roof. 

Victor is waiting for him in front of a table set for two (Yuuri recognizes the missing table from their breakfast nook). The cigarettes and detritus has been swept aside and twists of fairy lights strung up to glitter cheerfully over their little corner of the roof. Victor has lined the edges of the roof in candles, and a bouquet of fresh flowers sits in a vase on the table along with plates, silverware, and a bottle of red wine. Victor offers him a shy smile and a bow.

“Yuuri, good evening.” 

“Victor…” Yuuri breathes, “This is beautiful.” 

“Exactly the word I am looking for.”

Stepping in close, Victor takes Yuuri’s hand and brings his fingers to his lips. Yuuri can feel the puff of Victor’s breath across his knuckles and the touch is...electric.

“Thank you,” Yuuri manages, cheeks warm, “You look nice too.”

Victor looks more than nice in a deep purple sweater, cut with a shallow v-neck that gives Yuuri a tantalizing view of his pale throat. It’s the most of Victor’s skin Yuuri has ever seen, and the view is distracting, to say the least. 

“Yuuri, thank you for dining with me tonight.”

Victor keeps hold of Yuuri’s hand as his expression falls into something solemn. 

“I behaved in a most ungentlemanlike manner yesterday,” he murmurs, blue eyes contrite, “I only hope that you can forgive me.”

Despite the highs and lows of the last forty-eight hours, it’s easy for Yuuri to reach up and cup Victor’s face in his palm, stroking his thumb over the duke’s high cheekbone.

“I do forgive you, Victor,” Yuuri says with a smile, “Thank you for making such an effort to earn it.” 

Victor leans into Yuuri’s touch with an expression of pure bliss. 

“As if I could do anything less for you,” he replies, taking up Yuuri’s hand once more, “Come, tell me about your day while I pour us some wine.”

Victor pulls out Yuuri’s chair for him, setting him up with a glass of red wine as Yuuri talks a little about his day at the office, skimming over the uncomfortable details with Chris. 

“I was, you know, a little worried that it would be an awkward day,” Yuuri concludes as Victor serves them some delicious smelling pelmeni from a high end take out container, “But everything turned out fine.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Victor says, taking his seat opposite Yuuri at the small table, “Oh, and did you finally get to talk to Mr. Giacometti about the safety data you were concerned over?”

“...yes,” Yuuri says after a pause, “I managed to find some time this morning.”

“That’s wonderful, Yuuri,” Victor replies, “I hope he heard you out?” 

“He listened,” Yuuri assures him, which is not technically a lie.

“Marvelous,” Victor declares, taking Yuuri’s hand again, “It was so brave of you to stand up for your integrity, and after I made your situation even more difficult.”

“It’s nothing, Victor, really,” Yuuri says, looking away from Victor’s earnest gaze, “Can we, um, talk about something besides the office?”

“Of course. How are you enjoying the pelmeni?”

“They’re delicious,” Yuuri assures him, taking a bite of the buttery Russian dumpling, “Did you get them from Stanislav’s?”

“Yes, Phichit mentioned you enjoyed them, and I wanted to be able to procure our dinner on my own,” Victor says. Then with a laugh: “I believe I met Mrs. Stanislav. She seemed to find my accent very amusing, but we enjoyed some pleasant conversation. She insisted on gifting us some  _ trobuchka  _ for dessert.”

“I’ve never had one of those.” 

“Neither have I,” Victor admits, “I think they are a twentieth century invention. But they look delicious.”

“We can try them together,” Yuuri says, earning another handsome smile from Victor. 

“Of course,” he replies, “But first, tell me more about yourself, Yuuri. Where did you go to university?”

Conversation flows easily for the rest of dinner, and well into the  _ trobuchka _ , which are delicious little puff pastries full of sweet cream. Yuuri tells Victor about Wayne State and his years in Detroit, which quickly devolves into stories from his and Phichit’s colorful adventures in undergrad. Victor seems absorbed in Yuuri’s tales, stopping him to ask more about what microwaves are, and how electronic key card systems work. Mostly he seems curious about Yuuri, and how people in the twenty-first century socialize.

“...and I saw him again a month later, and his eyebrows still hadn’t grown back in,” Yuuri concludes with a laugh, recounting a favorite exploit of his and Phichit’s from their senior year.  

“That’s certainly one way to end a courtship,” Victor says, eyes dancing, “You are lucky to have a companion like Phichit to aid you in such matters.”

“Definitely,” Yuuri agrees, “I, uh, I mean I haven’t had a lot of luck in the dating department, but that was the only guy I had to chase off with a bunsen burner.”

“No luck?” Victor repeats, “I find that incredibly hard to believe, my Yuuri. Surely you’ve been properly courted, or had a lover.”

Yuuri’s brain short-circuits briefly over  _ my Yuuri _ , then catches up in time for him to realize Victor is asking him about his  _ dating history _ . 

“Um.”

“Ah, perhaps I’ve forgotten myself again,” Victor says with a wince, “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t wish to.”

“No, it’s okay.” Yuuri shifts his last bite of  _ trubochka _ around his plate, biting his lip. “I’ve had a few boyfriends, and um, a couple of one time things. But...looking back, I’m not sure I was ever really in love, you know?”

Victor only hums sympathetically, sipping his wine.

“What about you? Did you have anyone, back in 1876?”

“Georgi, my valet, always told me love is a leap. But I never found myself inspired to jump,” Victor says, looking into his glass, “Not even among my own sex.”

“Oh?”

“Mm, before our friend Phichit pulled me to the present day I had thought myself quite fossilized.”

Yuuri’s cheeks are growing warm again.  

“And now?” he asks. Victor smiles.  

“Here with you now, Yuuri, I find I am very much alive,” he replies, a bit of pink in his own cheeks.

“So, um…” Yuuri says, looking for a new topic of conversation, “I know you’re from St. Petersburg. What brought you to New York? You know, in the nineteenth century?”

“Marriage.”

Yuuri had been aiming for something light, but he’d apparently missed judging by the tightening of Victor’s smile. 

“Marriage?” he repeats. 

For a minute Yuuri thinks Victor might refuse to talk further, but after a moment Victor puts down his wine glass and reaches across the table for Yuuri’s hand, entwining their fingers. Yuuri gives him an encouraging squeeze and eventually Victor speaks.

“At the age of twenty-seven my ‘bachelorhood’ was considered enough of a blemish on my house that my great uncle brought me to America, to wed a suitable heiress who could preserve the family treasury,” he confesses, “I would be engaged now if Phichit had not appeared when he did. I was to announce a bride that night.”

“Who?” Yuuri asks, his voice little more than a whisper.

“I don’t know.” Victor’s eyes are tired, and sad. “Just someone. One of them.”

Well. They are out of  _ trubochka _ , their wine glasses are empty, and now Yuuri has managed to spectacularly kill the mood. It looks like the perfect date is over. 

“Victor, thank you,” Yuuri says, slipping his hand out of Victor’s grip as he stands, “This was really lovely.”

“It was my pleasure, Yuuri.” Victor also rises from his seat, ever the gentleman. “But what are you doing?”

Yuuri pauses in gathering up the dishes from their meal.

“Oh, I thought I would help you clean up.”

“Would you do me the honor of a dance first?” Victor asks. When Yuuri hesitates he reaches out, settling the plate in Yuuri’s grasp back on the table.  

“Please,” he entreats, blue eyes sparkling again. A tinkling waltz floats through the air as Victor offers his hand. With only slight trepidation Yuuri accepts.

Victor leads him to a clear section of roof still lit by the twinkling fairy lights. He guides Yuuri into frame, every movement revealing his aristocratic upbringing. He doesn’t clasp Yuuri’s hand but takes his fingers in a light grip. His hand is a barely there pressure just below Yuuri’s shoulder blades. Yuuri rests his remaining hand on Victor’s shoulder, thumb brushing against the soft material of his sweater. 

Even with the formality of the frame, this is the closest they have ever been. Yuuri can sense the proximity under his skin like electricity.  

“Ready?” Victor asks. Yuuri swallows.  

“I think so.”

They sway in place for a few beats, then Victor steps forward, Yuuri steps back, and they’re dancing. It’s a little stiff at first, but Yuuri begins to remember the steps from his undergraduate elective class and finds himself relaxing into the rhythm. Victor looks perfectly at ease as he leads Yuuri from a simple progression into a graceful turn.

“I haven’t danced in forever,” Yuuri admits, grinning despite himself as they find their footing.

“And I have never been able to dance with my preferred partner,” Victor assures him, “So in that regard we are equally inexperienced.” 

Despite his claim Victor is an excellent dancer. Yuuri isn’t used to following, so there are a few stumbles here and there, but with Victor’s lead Yuuri is actually enjoying himself as they turn about their little section of rooftop.

“This would look a lot more elegant if one of us was in skirts,” Yuuri observes. Victor chuckles, but shakes his head.

“How it looks is only important to professionals,” he replies, “What really matters in a dance occurs between the two people who share it.” 

“So what’s occurring between us now, exactly?” Yuuri asks, a smile tugging at his lips. Victor’s eyes twinkle as he winks.

“Fun.” 

Victor pulls Yuuri into a complex little spin, going hand over hand and turning him about until Yuuri stumbles from laughing. 

“Stimulating conversation,” Victor continues, stepping smoothly back into the waltz pattern, “How are you liking the waltz, Yuuri?” 

“Very much, thanks,” Yuuri replies, playing along, “Anything else?”  

“Oh yes.” 

Smooth as silk, Victor guides Yuuri into a shallow, elegant dip. 

“Intimacy.”

Victor holds the position effortlessly as the music peters out, leaving only the evening hum of the city and their own slightly elevated breathing. Yuuri is entirely held within Victor’s arms, his hand warm pressed to the small of his back. He can’t seem to look away from his partner’s face, Victor’s cheeks flushed from their exertion and his eyes crystalline blue in the glowing light. His mouth looks...so soft. Yuuri wets his own lips, his mouth suddenly dry, and Victor’s gaze darts down to the motion. It seems the most natural thing in the world for Yuuri to just lean up a little and— 

Victor’s mouth  _ is _ soft. And warm. Yuuri forgets to close his eyes, too busy staring at Victor from the most intimate of angles. His eyelashes are a delicate, devastating silver. Yuuri shifts, parting his lips ever so slightly, and Victor inhales sharply. The sound breaks Yuuri out of his stupor and he pulls back, horrified.

“Oh! I-I’m sorry,” he stammers. 

“Whatever for?” Victor’s eyes are still closed, his brow furrowed.

“I-I didn’t ask, I just—”

Victor’s eyes flutter open, dark with want. He tips Yuuri back upright and kisses him. He kisses him, and kisses him, and  _ kisses _ him, until Yuuri isn’t even sure he could stand if Victor let him go. The desperate remains of their dance frame is all that’s holding him up. 

After a moment lips part, but Victor refuses to pull away, their faces close enough for Yuuri to feel the brush of Victor’s eyelashes. 

“ _ Yuuri _ .”

Yuuri realizes with a thrill that Victor is  _ trembling.  _ And...and so is he.

“Since the first hour we met I have been wanting,” Victor breathes, his lips tracing over the crest of Yuuri’s cheek, “Do not apologize for taking what is already yours.” 

“Victor.” Yuuri’s hands are fisted in the soft wool of Victor’s sweater, his nose tucked into the tender corner of his jaw. “Come downstairs?” 

Victor eases one of Yuuri’s hands from their urgent grip so that he can press a kiss to the fluttering pulse at Yuuri’s wrist. 

“ _ Yes _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everyone! The next chapter will pick up Exactly where this one left off ;)))) don't forget to share and subscribe!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, all. Hope you enjoy this ;)

Dinner has gone better than Victor could possibly have dared hope. 

Not that Victor can recall much of their supper, nor dessert for that matter. The taste gracing his palate now is far more tantalizing than any earthly cuisine could offer.

“Yuuri,  _ Yuuri—“ _

A muffled moan rumbles in Victor’s chest, accompanied by the obscene smacking of lips. They’re pressed up against the closed door of Yuuri’s bedroom in their sock feet, the bedside lamp the only glow illuminating Yuuri’s lovely features as Victor does his best to pleasure him to kingdom come.

“Victor,” Yuuri marvels when they pause for breath, his lips spit slick and rosy, “Wow.”

“‘Wow,’” Victor agrees, breath heavy in the intimate space between them. Yuuri hasn’t stopped his hands moving since their first embrace. Even now he pets over Victor’s chest and shoulders, palms firm and oh so warm through the thin material of Victor’s sweater. Every new touch, every pause for Yuuri to explore the spread of his ribs or the dip of his collarbone has Victor shuddering anew. Yuuri’s thumb just brushes the edge of a nipple and Victor practically falls into another languid embrace, exploring the contours of Yuuri’s plush mouth with his own.

He has no idea what permissions Yuuri may grant him tonight, nor does he harbor any concrete expectations. Victor is already embarrassingly close to coming undone from only the simple pleasure of being touched after so long going without. Any further congress between them will be a gift beyond Victor’s wildest hopes. 

That is not to say he won’t take advantage of the liberties given him, so long as they lead to their mutual satisfaction. 

The first barrier to that satisfaction: Yuuri’s shirt. Victor tugs the silken material from Yuuri’s trousers so that he can get his hands underneath it. Yuuri responds positively to this development, releasing a soft sound of pleasure against Victor’s lips as Victor circles Yuuri’s bare waist with his palms. Thus encouraged, Victor moves to the fastenings which keep his hands and lips from Yuuri’s pleasantly firm chest.

“This shirt is terribly becoming on you,” Victor says, slipping the buttons free one by one, “But forgive me if I say I would rather see you without it.” 

Something he said must be amusing, as a breathless laugh bubbles up from Yuuri’s chest. Victor might be offended if Yuuri’s smile weren’t so incredibly handsome. 

“Something funny?” Victor asks as he manages to liberate Yuuri’s shirt from his shoulders, revealing all manner of tempting skin for him to explore.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says, grinning into the crook of Victor’s neck, “You’re just so  _ smooth _ .”

“I don’t understand that colloquialism,” Victor admits, amusement curling his lips as he kisses the tender skin of Yuuri’s throat, “Ought I to be bristly instead?”

Yuuri shakes his head, thumbs circling at the nape of Victor’s neck.

“All you have to be is yourself.” 

“I am more than happy to oblige.”

Victor aids Yuuri in tugging his sleeves off his wrists. The shirt is forgotten on the floor and Victor can drag his palms down the smooth column of Yuuri’s spine unimpeded. Victor nibbles on Yuuri’s bottom lip as he learns the shape of him, finally touching his fill of Yuuri’s firm chest and soft stomach. Yuuri gives a shaky exhale, his muscles jumping under Victor’s touch when he brushes across a ticklish spot. 

“Feels good,” he murmurs, arms draped languidly over Victor’s shoulders.

Feeling bold, Victor skims his hand lower, between Yuuri’s thighs. Molten heat courses through him as he finds the shape of Yuuri’s cock already straining against the front of his trousers. Yuuri releases an involuntary little  _ ah _ when Victor applies the slightest pressure, his hips bucking into the fit of Victor’s palm.

Yuuri is hard, because of  _ him _ . The next kiss Victor places at the hinge of Yuuri’s jaw is wet. He presses the heel of his hand to Yuuri’s arousal, just to feel him shudder under the touch, before he goes about finding the quickest route to getting his mouth on that promising bulge.

“I seem to recall,” Victor muses, tugging the leather tab of Yuuri’s belt from its fastening, “When we first met, you were quite piqued by the sight of me on my knees.”

“I was wha—oh, yeah.” Yuuri laughs again. “You caught me, too. That was embarrassing—um, Victor?”    

Victor has already dealt with the button of Yuuri’s trousers and his old nemesis, the zipper. With a pleased sigh he slides to his knees, only Yuuri’s curiously fitted drawers keeping him from his heart’s desire. Looking up, Victor eyes the rapid rise and fall of Yuuri’s chest with a warm sense of satisfaction. It seems his companion has only now realized Victor’s intention, and his reaction is flattering, to say the least.  

“It’s been so long,” Victor murmurs, hands warm on Yuuri’s thighs, “You’ll have to guide me in pleasing you.”

“Y-you don’t have to.” 

Despite his protests Yuuri threads a hand through Victor’s hair, scratching his nails delicately against his scalp as he pulls him closer. Victor nuzzles into the arousal waiting Yuuri’s fitted drawers, a hum of pure yearning rumbling in his chest. With a smile he stares up at Yuuri before pressing a tender kiss just below his navel.

“I do,” Victor assures him, “My darling, I think I might die if I don’t.”

“Oh.” Yuuri’s lovely eyes are round in the low light. “Okay, then.”

With permission Victor tugs Yuuri’s trousers a bit further down his thighs before reverently freeing him from the constraints of his undergarments.

Face to face with Yuuri’s lovely flushed cock Victor has to resist the blasphemous urge to cross himself. Still, when he finally takes Yuuri into his mouth Victor won’t pretend it’s anything less than a religious experience.

Yuuri is so wonderfully thick and heavy on his tongue. Victor takes his time working up to a steady rhythm, letting the old pattern of sinking down and drawing back resettle in his jaw, putting his tongue to ardent use. Luckily the skill seems to return to him rather quickly, judging by the sound that Yuuri makes when Victor hollows his cheeks. 

“ _ Ah _ , fuck, like that.” 

Yuuri’s voice is soft but emphatic. Despite the ragged edge to his words Yuuri’s hands continue to card his fingers gently through Victor’s hair, his touch both arousing and encouraging. His head hits the door with as Victor swallows, just deep enough to give the head of Yuuri’s cock a squeeze where it rests on the back of his tongue. Yuuri’s panting breaths are interspersed with more muttered praise.

“Amazing. So good, I can’t believe—“

Victor preens around the cock in his mouth, happy to hear his talents appreciated. Lord knows he spent enough of his time at university practicing. Yuuri’s grip tightens in his hair when Victor’s tongue presses in the right spot just under the head of his cock and Victor moans involuntarily, his own arousal throbbing within his trousers. Steadying himself with one hand on the base of Yuuri’s cock Victor pulls off briefly to fumble with the button and zipper at his own hips until the pressure against his aching erection eases and he breathes a hot sigh of relief right over his lover’s cock. Yuuri shudders anew, and he groans when he glances down to see Victor palming himself through the open fastenings of his jeans.

“V-Victor.” Yuuri chokes when Victor begins to stroke him, dragging his lips and tongue along the length of his erection. “How are you s-so—”

“Handsome?” Victor guesses, managing a bit of a tease around eager licks to the head of Yuuri’s dick, “Gallant? Gluttonous?”

“All of it, god,  _ Victor _ . M’gonna—stop... _ stop _ ,” Yuuri gasps, urging Victor to release him. Victor retreats at once, moving his hands to rest reassuringly at Yuuri’s thighs as his partner catches his breath.

“Are you alright?” Victor asks, a thousand apologies on his lips. Yuuri assuages his fears with a lopsided smile. 

“Yeah. More than alright,” Yuuri assures him, thumbing tenderly at Victor’s swollen mouth, “Just can’t come yet. I‘ll be too sensitive.” 

“Too sensitive?” 

“Mm. For you. C’mon.”

With bright eyes Yuuri pulls Victor to his feet, tugging at the hem of his sweater until Victor catches up to present events and he strips off the offending garment, tossing it aside. Yuuri exhales, dragging his palms slowly up Victor’s arms and down the contours of his chest. A frisson of self-consciousness works its way up Victor’s spine and he hides his warming cheeks in Yuuri’s soft black hair. 

“I hope my form is...pleasing to you,” he murmurs in Yuuri’s ear, “I’m more academic than athletic, but I try to keep fit.”

Yuuri doesn’t dignify that with a verbal response, only a sharp sucking kiss to the base of Victor’s throat that leaves him gasping. His hands slide from Victor’s chest to the waistband of his trousers, pushing the material down until the denim pools at Victor’s feet and he is standing in only his drawers. Victor moves to do the same for Yuuri, but he’s distracted by the full swell of his partner’s backside. He slips his hands beneath Yuuri’s black trousers to grip him over his drawers and squeeze. The pressure has Yuuri arching forward and they share moan between their lips as their hips meet for the first time, only Victor’s drawers separating his cock from Yuuri’s. He follows the friction greedily, grinding his aching hardness into Yuuri’s hip.

“Victor.” Yuuri’s voice is husky, mirroring the ardor coursing through Victor’s veins. 

“Yuuri,” Victor replies, “How can I please you? Please, ask anything of me you want.” 

“You can fuck me.” Yuuri grips Victor through his drawers, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Only if you want.”

“Only if I want,” Victor repeats, incredulous. 

Yuuri smiles, flush bright on his cheeks. 

“Yeah,” he says, nudging Victor back towards the bed, “I doubt things have changed too much in that department since the nineteenth century, do you think?” 

“I couldn’t say,” Victor replies, stepping out of his trousers and following Yuuri, “We shall have to try it, and see.”

“Oh!” Yuuri seems to realize as he kicks off his own pants and sits on the bed, “We do have one new thing. I bet you’ll like it.” 

“I am liking it already, I promise you,” Victor says, shamelessly admiring the curve of Yuuri’s ass as he rummages through a drawer within the bedside table. He sinks down onto the mattress as Yuuri emerges with a curious wedge shaped purple tube and a small foil packet. The packet he sets aside, but the tube he offers to Victor after popping open its lid with his thumb. 

“Maybe I’m wrong about my history, but I don’t think this has been invented yet in your time.” 

Victor goes to puzzle out the contents of the tube when without further ado, Yuuri slides his undergarments down his hips and tosses them aside. He folds back the blankets and lays back on clean white sheets, looking for Victor to join him.

Victor is so taken with the sight of Yuuri spread out on the bed, bare as the day he was born, that he’s taken aback by sudden cool wetness at his fingertips. He looks down, startled, at the tube and the bead of its contents he’s squeezed out into his hand. Victor had expected oil, but this was some other clear viscous...liquid? 

“Good God,” Victor exclaims, fascinated at the frictionless slide of his fingers, “This substance. What is it?”

“It’s lube. Uh,  _ personal lubricant _ .” Yuuri’s expression goes a bit pinched at the clinical terminology, but Victor’s mind is awhirl with the erotic possibilities. “It’s basically a water and glycerin solution. It’s for—”  

“I’m a mortal man with a sexual appetite, my Yuuri,” Victor interrupts him, “I can imagine what it’s for.”  

Victor wraps his slick palm around Yuuri’s cock and gives a firm pump. The slide is effortless, but the rewards are immediate. Yuuri’s back arches beautifully, his head hitting the pillow beneath him with a thump as he moans his pleasure. So encouraged, Victor’s fingers trace their way between Yuuri’s thighs until he’s circling his taut rim with one slippery fingertip. Victor applies pressure, Yuuri sighs and shudders, then Victor’s finger is surrounded by velvet heat.

“Progress,” Victor breathes, reaching for the tube again, “Incredible.”

He is about to squeeze out a generous dollop of the stuff when it occurs to Victor to ask:

“Is lubricant a particularly precious substance?”

Yuuri shakes his head, cheeks flushed.

“No,” he says, “Use a lot.” 

Victor coats his fingers liberally.

“With pleasure.”

With the aid of this new invention preparing Yuuri for their joining is easy, and in fact a pleasure all its own. Victor works his partner open with keen eye for Yuuri’s comfort, plying him liberally with kisses and dipping down occasionally to pull his cock back between his lips. He learns through experimentation that “lube” absorbs into the skin over time, thus reapplication is a necessary portion of lovemaking. It’s hardly troublesome, not when Yuuri begs for him so sweetly. 

“Victor, please, I’m good,” he pleads, thighs spread wantonly. 

“Yes, you are,” Victor replies, stroking soothingly over Yuuri’s thigh as his fingers work relentlessly inside him. 

Yuuri laughs, a lovely sound, and shakes his head. 

“No, no,” he says, shivering as Victor brushes against something sensitive, “I mean I’m ready. For you. Please.”  

Victor hardly needs to be told twice. A fine tremor has taken up residence in his limbs as the promise of actually  _ having _ this exquisite man nears its fruition. Victor strips off his drawers, preening as Yuuri stares, biting his lip again. Apparently Victor’s build does not disappoint in this regard. Yuuri breathlessly explains condoms, which seem a tidy little invention. Victor only struggles for a moment, and Yuuri sits up to assist him, rolling the latex down Victor’s length in a surprisingly intimate moment. 

Then Yuuri lays back, a pillow beneath his hips and his thighs parted. For  _ Victor.  _

Victor has to take a moment, resting on one elbow over Yuuri, to appreciate the unbelievable position he’s found himself in. He strokes his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, eyes locked on Yuuri’s beautiful features. 

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks, brown eyes earnest and impossibly warm in the low lamplight.

“Yes, yes.” Victor rests his brow against Yuuri’s, breathing deeply. “I’m simply overwhelmed. Ecstatic. You’ve already given me so much pleasure, Yuuri, I’m not sure how much more I can take without simply shaking apart.” 

Yuuri laughs a little, brushing Victor’s silver locks out of his eyes.  

“We haven’t even started yet.” 

Victor drops a kiss to the tip of Yuuri’s nose, then another to his brow, lingering as he hitches Yuuri’s thigh up around his waist. 

“You’re mistaken,” Victor says, voice low and shaky as he feels the press of himself where Yuuri is wet and open, “Every moment between us since that first kiss has been leading to now. Every word, every touch, every glance has been its own drop of bliss and I will cherish them all forever, none moreso than tonight.” 

Yuuri clasps Victor’s face between his palms, gaze searching.

“I’m sure you say that to all your suitors,” he says with a half smile, eyes fluttering as Victor fits his cock to Yuuri’s entrance. Victor shakes his head, thighs taut with the effort of restraining himself.

“Never,” he promises, “Only you.”

Yuuri exhales, using his heels at Victor’s back to urge him forward into their joining. There’s a moment of pressure, then the head of Victor’s cock is engulfed in tight heat.

_ “Oh, _ ” he sighs, pushing into Yuuri in one slow, smooth slide, “Science is a miracle, Yuuri. What an age to live in.”

Yuuri laughs softly despite the pinch in his brow as he adjusts to the thickness of Victor inside him. 

“You really put things in perspective,” he murmurs, smiling when Victor presses a kiss to his sternum, “Mm, you should move now. Slowly.”

Victor obeys, drawing out and pressing in in a shallow thrust that pulls a hiss from Yuuri that isn’t exclusively pleasure. 

That simply won’t do. Circling his hips, Victor reaches between them to stroke Yuuri’s cock, the remaining lubricant easing the slide until Yuuri is panting again, this time from unadulterated need. Victor offers another tentative thrust, and Yuuri tosses his head back with a cry.  

“More,” he pleads, rocking his hips up to meet Victor’s on the next push, “Oh,  _ yes. _ ”

This now, Victor muses as he seeks his bliss in the slick push and pull of Yuuri’s body, is love making. A rhythm builds between them, and with it electricity. Victor cannot contain his gasping breaths as he fucks into Yuuri, heat centered at his core where they are joined. Yuuri’s thighs are plush and heavy spread around Victor’s hips, his throat pale and smooth where he’s tipped his head back in pleasure. Victor’s hips stutter, a possessive thrill shooting up his spine when he realizes he can already see the pink splotches where his biting kisses have left their mark. Yuuri groans, impatient in his need, and Victor thrusts in again, tilting his hips until he locates the perfect angle to drive Yuuri mad with ecstasy. Yuuri’s fingers clench in the bedsheets, his cries of  _ harder _ or  _ there, there, again _ stirring the fervor of Victor’s thrusts until his thighs burn and his arms shake.  

It’s been  _ so _ long. Victor has lost all his tolerance for pleasure, and the clutch of Yuuri around him pushes him to the edge sooner than he had hoped. He slows his thrusts, head hanging between his shoulders as he tries and fails to bridle the climax that threatens to overtake. 

“Yuuri,  _ Yuuri, _ I’m going to spend,” Victor groans, pressure tight in his groin, “I can’t... _ ah... _ I can’t hold on any longer.”  

“Then don’t.” Yuuri leans up on one elbow until their brows meet, both their skin slick with sweat. Yuuri’s eyes are bright, his smile red and kiss bitten. 

“I want to see you come so bad,” he breathes between them, grip firm on the back of Victor’s neck as they rock together, “Show me, Victor?” 

Victor spends with Yuuri’s lips on his. Yuuri’s thighs in his hands. Yuuri’s hands in his hair. Yuuri’s body, hot and  _ tight _ around his cock. Everything is Yuuri, Yuuri,  _ Yuuri _ , and it’s sweet ecstasy. Victor fucks through his orgasm, laboring until the first pangs of oversensitivity shiver up his spine. Only then does he slow, stringing out the press of his hips and their shared kisses until he finally falls still.

“ _ Godspodi _ ,” Victor groans at last, fear of blasphemy the last thing on his mind as he carefully draws out of Yuuri’s tender heat. Yuuri shudders under him, and Victor is reminded that his partner remains to be satisfied. 

“Please,  _ Victor _ ,” Yuuri begs, cock still flushed and straining against his belly. Despite the lethargy setting in with his climax Victor’s mouth waters anew. 

This too, will be his to savor.

Victor drags his lips down Yuuri’s belly, still desperate for the warmth of him. He leaves the print of his teeth just below Yuuri’s navel before pulling his cock back between his lips, this time with the intent to taste his completion. Yuuri practically spasms under Victor’s ministrations, especially once Victor slides two fingers back into his slick opening. Victor hooks his forefinger  _ just _ so and Yuuri’s thighs clamp tight around him, a helpless moan escaping his lips. Victor startles at the sudden squeeze, which Yuuri must interpret as displeasure.

“Ah,  _ ah, _ sorry,” he gasps, releasing Victor from his accidental death-grip.

“Don’t hold back, my darling,” Victor entreats, stroking Yuuri’s pale flank with his free hand, “I’ll expire between these thighs a happy man.”

Victor returns to his labor with intensity, building a rhythm with his mouth and fingers that brings Yuuri to the brink within minutes. His cries escalate, each one music to Victor’s ears as he shares his own hums and groans in reply around Yuuri’s cock. Eventually Yuuri goes taut beneath him, his grip desperate in Victor’s hair.

“I’m close— _ close—“   _

Victor presses his tongue to the underside of Yuuri’s cock and hollows his cheeks. He’s rewarded with the sweet, shattered sound of Yuuri’s pleasure and the bitter wash of Yuuri’s spend over his palate. Victor swallows all that he can, pulling off to lick at the head of Yuuri’s cock until he’s gone soft. Catching his breath, Victor wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and stares, still needing.

Yuuri, chest still heaving, simply opens his arms. Victor wastes no time cleaving to his embrace. They kiss, the sensation lush against Victor’s well used mouth. Yuuri brushes his thumb against Victor’s bottom lip when they part, and Victor has to blink back wetness behind his eyes at the sweetness of his touch.

“Thank you, Yuuri,” he breathes.

It feels like more than sex, than carnality. It feels like the intimacy Victor has been craving his entire life. 

Victor buries his nose in Yuuri’s sweat damp hair and breathes deeply.

Bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the morning after, and a Saturday about town.


End file.
